Chapter 2 - The Woman at the Door
Then, three days after Wren came home, someone knocked on my front door.
I was standing in the living room with her against my chest when the knock came again. I wasn't expecting anyone. I walked slowly to the door and looked through the peephole.
A woman stood outside — around forty, eyes swollen from crying. Something about her posture immediately made me uneasy. Wren stirred against me.
I opened the door only halfway.
"Are you Diane?"
"Yes."
Her eyes dropped to the baby. "Was she born three days ago?"
My entire body tightened. "Who are you?"
She swallowed hard. "The clinic called me yesterday after your daughter was born."
I pulled Wren closer. "Why would the clinic call you?"
Instead of answering, she reached inside her coat. I shifted Wren higher against my chest. She noticed. "I'm not going to hurt you." Then she pulled out a folded envelope. "My name is Ivanna. I'm forty-two."
I stayed where I was. She held the envelope toward me. "This came from the clinic."
"What does it say?"
Her mouth trembled. "I think you should read it yourself."
Every instinct told me to close the door, lock it, protect my daughter first. Then I noticed Ivanna's hands were trembling too. Whatever was happening, she was frightened as well.
"Come inside."
She entered carefully, unable to stop looking at Wren.
"Please don't stare at her like that."
"I'm sorry." She looked away quickly.
I sat on the sofa with Wren pressed against me while Ivanna remained standing. "Sit." She lowered herself into the chair opposite me.
I opened the envelope. The first page was dense with formal medical and legal language. I read the opening paragraph twice before reaching a sentence that made the whole room seem to disappear around me.
The fertility clinic had discovered a possible mistake involving stored reproductive material.
My hands went cold. "What mistake?"
Ivanna wiped her eyes. "Keep reading."
Years earlier, she had also frozen eggs at the same clinic. Her samples had been stored in the same facility as mine. During an internal investigation triggered after Wren's birth, technicians found that identification numbers on two storage records didn't match archived lab information. One record belonged to me. The other belonged to Ivanna.
I looked up. "No."
She stayed silent.
"No. They used my egg."
"That's what everyone believed."
"I was told it was mine."
"So was I."
Wren made a small sound against my chest, and I looked down at her peaceful face. My heart began pounding. "What exactly are you telling me?"
Ivanna took a slow breath. "The clinic believes the egg used to create your daughter might have been mine."
For several seconds I couldn't process the sentence. Every word made sense. Together they seemed impossible.
"Might have been?"
"They don't know yet."
"Then why are you standing in my house?"
Her expression tightened. "Because they called me yesterday."
"And you decided to come here?"
"I shouldn't have."
"You're right."
"I know." Tears filled her eyes again. "But after they told me a baby had been born, I couldn't think clearly."
I stood abruptly. Wren stirred. Ivanna rose too.
"Sit down." She immediately obeyed.
I walked to the window, because suddenly my legs didn't feel strong enough to hold me. For nine months I'd believed Wren had begun with the final remaining piece of my younger self — the woman I'd been at thirty-three reaching across forty-two years, finally giving me the child she'd preserved the possibility of having.
Now a stranger sat in my living room telling me that might not be true.
"Did you know the clinic still had one of your eggs?"
Ivanna nodded. "I knew one remained."
"Why didn't you use it?"
Her face changed, and I realized immediately I'd touched something painful.
"I tried. My husband and I tried for years. We created several embryos. None survived." Her voice softened. "Then my husband died."
I said nothing.
"Car accident. Two years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"After that, I couldn't bring myself to return to the clinic." She looked at the floor. "I kept paying storage fees because destroying that final egg felt like closing a door I wasn't ready to close."
That sentence hit harder than I expected. I understood exactly what she meant.
"Yesterday, the clinic called and told me there might have been a mix-up. They said DNA testing would be necessary."
"And they gave you my address?"
"No."
"Then how did you find me?"
"They accidentally mentioned your full name during the call." She looked ashamed. "I searched public records. I know I shouldn't have."
"You absolutely shouldn't have."
"I know." Her voice cracked. "I didn't come here to take your daughter."
"I didn't say you did."
"You were thinking it."
She was right.
"I only needed to know if there really was a baby." She swallowed hard. "Then you opened the door holding her."
I looked down at Wren, one tiny fist resting against my shirt. Something fiercely protective rose in me. "If the DNA test proves she's biologically yours, what happens?"
Ivanna went pale. "I don't know."
"Would you want custody?"
She didn't answer immediately. That hesitation terrified me more than any answer could have.
"I asked you a question."
"I know." She finally met my eyes. "I've wanted a child for most of my adult life."
My throat tightened. "So have I."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
Her expression collapsed. "You're right. I don't know your life."
I sat down again. For a while, neither of us spoke. Two women. Two frozen eggs. Two lives shaped by decades of waiting. And one sleeping newborn between us.
"I've had three days with her," I whispered.
Ivanna looked at Wren. "I've had none."
That hurt. I hated that it hurt. I desperately wanted her to become the villain — to say something selfish or cruel so I could hate her without guilt. Instead she looked completely broken.
Wren began fussing. I stood and rocked her gently. "It's okay, sweetheart."
Ivanna turned her face away, but I saw tears on her cheeks.
Before I could think better of it, I asked, "Do you want to hold her?"
We both looked surprised.
"Are you sure?"
"No."
For a second she almost smiled. So did I. I walked toward her slowly. She held out her arms. Carefully, I placed Wren against her chest. Ivanna's whole body went rigid. Then Wren relaxed. Ivanna made a small sound and covered her mouth.
"She's so tiny."
"Seven pounds, two ounces."
May you like
She smiled through her tears. "Hello, Wren."
I watched them together. Jealousy came first. Then fear. But after those, something I didn't expect. Compassion. And somehow that was the hardest emotion of all.
