“Okay?” I don’t know what she could possibly say in this situation other than they’re sorry for the privacy breach, but I’m not the one they should be apologizing to—unless they sent my name to Fabian? Though I can’t imagine why they’d do that. I haven’t communicated with them since they discharged me to my OB after the first trimester almost a year and a half ago.
“Have you had a chance to look over the letter in any detail?”
“That’s an odd question.” I imagine she’s trying to get me to say whether I realize Fabian is my donor because if she admits it first, that could come back to her. “If you’re asking if I matched up the donor number on the letter with the donor number on my original papers, the answer is yes.”
Rhonda exhales into the receiver. “All right. That’s what I was wondering. And that’s also why I’m calling. I just spoke to your donor, and he would very much like to meet you.”
No.
No, no, no.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Absolutely not,” I counter before I have a chance to think it through. A man with all the money in the world can hire the best lawyers that money can buy. “So now that he’s aware he has a child, he wants to be in her life? What—does he want some kind of split custody arrangement? Does he want to suddenly be her father? Why would he want to meet us?”
For a flicker of a moment, I’m taken back to my painful divorce a decade ago. My ex got the house, our dog (a black Labrador retriever puppy he claimed was his exclusive hunting dog), and over half of the furniture we bought together (because it was placed on a credit card in his name). As soon as everything was finalized, I vowed to never let a man take anything away from me again.
“He … he actually hasn’t mentioned the child yet. He simply said he wanted to meet you.”
“Obviously I’m the gatekeeper to said child.” I lean over my kitchen island, watching my daughter pick a half-melted yogurt dot off the back of her hand. Our eyes catch and she flashes a smile that half-melts my heart. “My baby isn’t a pawn. We didn’t ask to know who her donor was. And even after getting that letter yesterday, I have no expectations of having Fabian Catalano in my life in any capacity.”
“I completely understand,” she says, though her tone is less than convincing. “This situation is less than ideal for each of us. And the clinic is extremely sorry for the complications this is causing you. In fact, I just spoke to Dr. Wickham a few moments ago, and he’s prepared to offer you a generous settlement.”
Money for nothing?
I’m not exactly hard-up. My car is paid off. My mortgage is very much affordable thanks to a recent refinance. My retirement account is healthy for my age. And my business has grown leaps and bounds in the last few years, to the point where I’m going to have to hire an assistant.
But turning away money that I can sock away for my daughter’s future would be a prideful move.
“If you could come in tomorrow, our legal team will be there to answer any questions,” she says, “and to go over the terms of the offer. We would just ask that you sign an NDA in exchange for your settlement.”
Of course …
They’re a business and they have to protect themselves. As a fellow business owner, I understand. I’m a liability to them, and they’re essentially paying for my silence. In the end, my daughter will benefit from this. I’m willing to sell my silence for her. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to go on social media and blast their clinic for this careless mistake. That won’t change what’s been done and it would only broadcast my personal business to the world.
“What time tomorrow?” I ask.
“Would two PM work?”
“That’s fine.” Carina will be here with Lucia, and it’ll give me enough time to run to the clinic and be back before dinner. “But just to reiterate, I do not want to meet my donor.”
“Are there any circumstances in which you might reconsider?”
“Can’t think of a single one,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Bixby. Two o’clock.”
Chapter 4
Fabian
* * *
“Mr. Catalano, Mr. Steen, Ms. Farber,” Rhonda says the following afternoon as I take a seat at the head of the twenty-foot table, sandwiched between my attorneys. “Thank you so much for flying out. I know your time is valuable, but I’m positive we can walk out of here with a satisfactory agreement that benefits us all.”
The conference room door swings open a second later, and in walk two men with matching silver beards and black suits.
“I’d like to introduce you to our legal counsel from Hawthorne and Gideon LLC,” Rhonda says. “Dr. Wickham will be in here shortly and then we can begin.”
Yawning, I peer out the window, toward a half-filled parking lot. We took a redeye last night from LAX to O’Hare. Tomorrow we fly back first thing in the morning.
“Where’s the recipient?” I ask, scanning the room.
Rhonda folds her hands, eyes averted. “I’m afraid she wasn’t open to meeting you.”
I see red for a moment, and my skin flashes hot.
For the bulk of my adult life, anything I’ve ever wanted has been a snap of the fingers away. “No” isn’t a word I’m accustomed to hearing. What mother wouldn’t want to meet her child’s donor father if given the rare opportunity?
“I don’t understand.” I sit straight, jaw tensing as my gaze bores into her. “That’s half the reason I agreed to this in-person meeting.”
Not to mention, the meeting is costing an arm and a leg in legal fees. The flights alone were several grand on such short notice, though I intend to have the firm bill Wickham’s office. Had I known the recipient wasn’t going to show, we could’ve fucking Zoomed this shit show.
Rhonda’s gaunt, papery cheeks flush. “When we spoke on the phone yesterday, Mr. Catalano, I informed you there was no guarantee. I spoke with your recipient yesterday and there was no changing her mind. She was adamant that she not meet you. I’m sorry.”
I shoot Steen and Farber a look, but they remain impressively stone-faced. As soon as we’re alone, we’ll have to discuss our next move and hopefully get ahead of any impending storms. More than likely this woman is looking to cash in on this … unfortunate mishap.
The door opens again, this time ushering in a tall, reedy man with salt-and-pepper lining his temples and thick rimmed glasses. The white lab coat covering his suit identifies him as Dr. Martin Wickham.
“Sorry I’m late, folks,” he says in a humble Midwestern tone. “Was just finishing up an embryo transfer. Can’t rush those.”
He chuckles as he takes a seat at the far end of the table, opposite of me, and he meets my stare without an ounce of reservation. His casual buoyancy is impressive given the circumstances.
“Mr. Catalano, as the founder and owner of this clinic, I want to first offer my sincere apologies. This entire thing has been a blemish on our pristine history, and quite frankly, we’re disappointed and embarrassed. We’ll do everything we can to ensure it never happens again,” he speaks as if he memorized a script his lawyers gave him. “In the meantime, we’re happy to offer you a settlement. I know it won’t change what’s already taken place, but it’s a show of good faith.”