An hour later, the surgeon came out.
I stood before she even reached me.
“Your wife is stable,” she said.
Air rushed back into my lungs.
“And the baby?”
A small smile.
“A boy. He’s in the NICU, but he’s breathing on his own. That’s a very good sign.”
My knees nearly gave out.
Noah.
I saw Sarah first.
She was pale, exhausted, but alive.
Her eyes opened when I stepped into the room.
“Michael,” she whispered.
“I’m here,” I said, taking her hand.
Tears slid down her temples.
“The envelope…”
“We’ll find it,” I said. “Don’t worry about that now.”
But she shook her head weakly.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
She swallowed.
Then, slowly:
“It wasn’t just about the baby.”
My chest tightened again.
“What do you mean?”
Her fingers curled weakly around mine.
“The test… it showed something else.”
A pause.
Then, quietly:
“Genetics.”
