“Good. Because I’m offering something else.”
At his kitchen table, Garrison placed three things in front of me.
A house key.
The name of a divorce attorney.
And a sealed envelope from a fertility specialist in Boston.
“My wife spent years being blamed for something that was never her fault,” he said. “It taught me not to automatically believe the loudest person in a marriage.”
Inside the envelope was an appointment that had already been paid for.
Then Garrison slid a photocopied medical report toward me.
Julian’s name was at the top.
The conclusion made my hands shake.
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