PART 2: The Five-Minute Countdown
The clock on the wall above the nurses' station read 10:14 AM.
I had exactly six minutes until my morbidity and mortality conference began on the fourth floor. Six minutes to stand in this brightly lit corridor and endure the man who had spent seven years meticulously dismantling my self-esteem.
Connor shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his expensive tailored suit. He was waiting for the explosion. He was waiting for the tears that used to come so easily when we were locked behind the closed doors of our suburban home.
"Nothing?" Connor echoed, his voice dripping with condescension. "You look at my son, you look at the woman who was actually capable of giving me a family, and you have nothing to say? You must be in shock, Kirsten. It’s okay to admit it hurts."
I didn't look at him. I looked at the baby.
As a physician, observation is not just a skill; it is a reflex. You learn to read the human body before the patient even opens their mouth. You look for pallor, for symmetry, for the subtle markers of genetics and health.
The little boy in the stroller was beautiful. He was currently chewing happily on the ear of a plush giraffe. But as I looked at him, my clinical mind started cataloging the traits.
Soft, spun-gold blond hair. Striking, translucent blue eyes. A distinct, slightly cleft chin.
I looked at Connor. Dark, almost black hair. Deep brown eyes. A smooth, narrow jawline. I looked at Melinda. Chestnut hair. Hazel eyes. Soft, rounded features.
Genetics is a complex science, full of recessive traits and generational skips. It is entirely possible for two dark-haired, dark-eyed parents to produce a blue-eyed, blond child if the recessive genes align perfectly in the Punnett square. It is rare, but it happens.
But it wasn't just the hair or the eyes. It was the chin. It was the shape of the brow. It was a face I had seen before, sitting across from me at awkward family Thanksgiving dinners.
I looked back at Melinda.
She was clutching the plastic baby bottle so tightly her knuckles were stark white. Her breathing was shallow. She was staring at the elevator doors at the end of the hallway as if she expected a bomb to go off. She was sweating in a climate-controlled hospital wing.
She wasn't basking in the glow of her stolen family. She was terrified.
"He's a beautiful boy, Melinda," I said softly, my voice completely stripped of malice.
Melinda flinched. She actually took a half-step backward, her shoulder bumping into Connor's arm. "Thank you, Kirsten," she whispered, her voice trembling so violently it cracked on the second syllable.
Connor frowned, looking between the two of us. This wasn't the dynamic he wanted. He wanted two women fighting over him. He wanted the bitter, barren ex-wife and the triumphant, fertile new lover. He didn't understand the silent, electric current of terror radiating off the woman standing next to him.
"Don't patronize her, Kirsten," Connor snapped, puffing out his chest. "We didn't come here to get your blessing. We came for Leo's one-year checkup with Dr. Evans. We're a family. Something you never understood how to build."
"I understand perfectly," I said, checking my watch. 10:17 AM. Three minutes. "I also understand medical history, Connor. Something you always preferred to ignore."
Connor's eyes narrowed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
During our marriage, when the pregnancy tests kept coming back negative, the grief had swallowed me whole. I had submitted myself to endless rounds of testing. Ultrasounds, blood panels, hormone therapies that made me sick to my stomach and wrecked my emotional stability. I had taken the blame because Connor refused to step foot in a clinic.
“It’s not me,” he had said, pacing our kitchen four years ago. “I’m a Fleming. My father had five kids. My grandfather had seven. It’s a woman’s job to carry a child, Kirsten. If it’s not working, it’s your body failing, not mine. I am not going into a sterile room to provide a sample like some defective animal.”
So I carried the shame. I carried the guilt. Until the very end, when I finally requested a full audit of our shared medical insurance records during the divorce discovery process.
I found a claim from six years prior. A private clinic out of state.
Connor had gotten tested. Secretly.
And he had buried the results.
"It means," I said, my voice dropping to a low, even tone that only the three of us could hear, "that I hope you are enjoying this performance. Because performances require an audience. And they usually end when the curtain drops."
The elevator doors at the far end of the hallway chimed loudly.
Ding.
The heavy metal doors slid open.
Melinda’s head snapped toward the sound. Her entire body went rigid.
A man stepped out of the elevator holding two paper cups of coffee from the cafeteria downstairs. He was tall, dressed in a casual leather jacket and jeans. The hospital lighting hit his face, illuminating his soft, spun-gold blond hair. His striking, translucent blue eyes. His distinct, slightly cleft chin.
Liam Fleming.
Connor’s younger brother.
He looked up from the coffee cups and saw us standing by the nurses' station. He froze. His eyes didn't go to his brother. They didn't go to me. They locked instantly, with heavy, undeniable familiarity, onto Melinda.
Melinda gasped. Her hand went limp.
The plastic baby bottle slipped from her fingers.
It hit the sterile linoleum floor with a sharp, violent crack. The cap popped off. Warm, white formula splattered across Connor’s polished leather shoes.
May you like
10:19 AM.
The five minutes were up.
