Chapter 2 - The Man My Father Pretended Not to Be
My father had lied to me for twenty-five years.
That was the only thought I could hold onto.
Everything else felt too large.
Too impossible.
My father, Samuel Reed, lived in a modest house outside Columbus, Ohio.
He wore inexpensive button-down shirts.
Drove a twelve-year-old Honda.
Did his own taxes.
Complained about the cost of cable television.
For my entire life, he had told me he worked in corporate accounting before retiring early.
Now Luka Moretti was telling me my quiet father had once worked inside a reproductive research laboratory.
With him.
“What exactly are you saying?”
I asked.
Luka glanced toward the nurse.
“Not here.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Good.”
I blinked.
He continued.
“You just gave birth.”
“You need a bed, a doctor, and someone guarding the door.”
“Guarding it from whom?”
He looked toward the elevator.
“Start with your husband.”
I should have laughed.
Instead, I believed him.
That terrified me.
Twenty minutes later, hospital security moved me to a private recovery suite under an administrative confidentiality order.
Luka did not come inside.
He stationed two people outside.
A woman named Rosa.
A broad-shouldered man named Matteo who looked like he could lift a car.
Neither wore visible weapons.
Neither needed them.
I sat in bed with my daughter sleeping beside me in the clear hospital bassinet.
For hours, I stared at her.
Derek and I had spent weeks discussing names.
He liked Madison.
I liked Grace.
He said Grace sounded old-fashioned.
Now his opinion no longer mattered.
I touched my daughter’s tiny cheek.
“Grace.”
She slept.
I smiled through tears.
“Your name is Grace.”
It was the first decision I made without Derek.
It felt small.
It also felt like the beginning of something.
At 2:17 that afternoon, my father called.
I stared at his name on my phone.
Then answered.
“Emma.”
His voice sounded strained.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
A pause.
“The baby?”
“She’s healthy.”
“Thank God.”
“Her name is Grace.”
Another pause.
“That’s beautiful.”
I closed my eyes.
“Do you know Luka Moretti?”
Silence.
Not confusion.
Silence.
My chest tightened.
“Dad?”
“Where are you?”
“You know him.”
“Emma, where is Luka?”
“Outside my hospital room.”
My father made a sound I had never heard from him before.
Fear.
“You need to leave.”
“What?”
“Do not go anywhere with him.”
“Why?”
“Just listen to me.”
“No.”
I sat up despite the pain.
“You have spent my entire life telling me you were an accountant.”
“Emma—”
“Were you?”
Silence.
“Were you an accountant?”
“No.”
The word shattered something inside me.
“What were you?”
My father breathed heavily.
“I was a genetic records administrator.”
“For Moretti?”
“For a research company partially funded by them.”
“What is M-17?”
He said nothing.
I gripped the phone.
“Dad.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“My daughter’s medical file is locked under that code.”
The silence became unbearable.
Then my father whispered,
“Oh God.”
My skin prickled.
“You know what it means.”
“I know what it used to mean.”
“What?”
“Male donor archive.”
I looked through the glass at Luka.
He was speaking quietly to Rosa.
“M?”
“Moretti.”
“And seventeen?”
My father’s voice cracked.
“The donor number.”
I stopped breathing.
Outside, Luka suddenly turned.
As if he knew.
As if he could feel the moment my world shifted.
I stared directly at him.
“Whose donor number?”
My father began crying.
I had heard my father cry only once.
At my mother’s funeral.
“Dad?”
“Emma, listen carefully.”
His breathing grew ragged.
“M-17 should not exist anymore.”
“Why?”
“Because I destroyed it.”
My fingers went numb.
“What did you destroy?”
“The original records.”
“Of what?”
“A preserved specimen.”
I could barely force out the next question.
“Whose?”
My father whispered,
“Luka Moretti’s.”
I looked through the window.
At Luka.
At the tattoos on his hands.
At the man who had signed the father line.
Then I looked at Grace.
No.
Impossible.
My father continued.
“Twenty-five years ago, Luka was injured in an accident.”
“He was young.”
“His family arranged fertility preservation before a series of surgeries.”
“The sample was placed in a private archive.”
“Why destroy the records?”
“Because someone tried to steal it.”
“Who?”
Before he answered, an alarm sounded outside my room.
Rosa shouted.
Matteo ran down the hallway.
Luka pushed open my door.
“Emma, hang up.”
“What happened?”
“Hang up now.”
I heard my father shouting through the phone.
“Emma!”
Then Luka locked the door.
A nurse was running toward us.
Her face had gone pale.
“The nursery scanner flagged an unauthorized duplicate infant bracelet.”
I looked at Grace.
“What does that mean?”
The nurse swallowed.
“Someone printed a second identification band using your daughter’s hospital number.”
Luka’s entire expression hardened.
“Where?”
She looked toward the stairwell.
“Three floors below.”
My father was still yelling through the phone.
Then I heard him say one final sentence.
“Emma, the person who tried to steal M-17 twenty-five years ago was a Holloway.”
May you like
Derek’s last name.
My husband’s family name.
