Chapter 1
Medical Malpractice
GAbrIELLA
Forty-three years old…
A small smile graced my lips as I finished preparing the extravagant dishes on the kitchen bench.
I had prepared a feast of all my husband’s favourite foods since tonight was the night he was finally coming home.
Nico was a renowned plastic surgeon and chose to challenge himself by accepting a secondment abroad for two months.
I had every intention to go with him, but our work schedules never aligned. I was the leading paediatrician at the local hospital and by the time I dealt with one crisis, two more managed to pop up.
With such demanding jobs our schedules clashed often, but this was the longest I had ever been without him.
I missed my husband terribly.
His bad jokes that aged poorly. His smoky cologne that he hadn’t changed since college. And those laughing wrinkles that deepened around his eyes. They were always there when he was with me.
We had a good life, filled with joy.
Unable to resist I sent him a message for the millionth time that day.
“Forty minutes till I see you, honey. I planned the biggest surprise for you.”
“Can’t wait, babe. Surprise? Tell me it involves you…with nothing on.”
It wasn’t me. But it was someone.
I tucked my phone away sporting a huge grin; I wanted everything to be perfect. I busied my excited mind by finding things to tidy, which had me flicking through the mail that had been neglected for far too long.
I skipped the advertisements then caught on a letter addressed to Nico. A second ticked by as I tried to work out why this sudden sense of reckoning came over me.
I recognised the logo in the corner since I had so much trauma associated with the image alone.
A pink heart with a baby handprint in the middle. One Care Fertility Clinic.
For years we had tried to get pregnant.
A baby was the one thing I truly, deeply wanted above all else, and I was denied. We explored other options, but Nico didn’t want a child that was not naturally conceived or was not biologically linked to both of us.
That was a hard period in our marriage and for my own personal wellbeing.
Despite countless investigations, there was no reasoning for why we were unsuccessful. They said it was unexplained infertility. And that took a toll on me.
It was difficult to reconcile my inadequacies as a female. What good was I if my body couldn’t do the normal functioning it was created to do? What was so wrong with me that I was chosen not to be blessed with a child when it came so easily to others that didn’t deserve it at all?
Years of recovery got me to a stage of acceptance. That path wasn’t destined for me but that didn’t mean my love and attention had to go to waste, because I had so much to give.
I poured all that extra focus into the sick kids I cared for, which fulfilled my days with enough light to keep out the dark.
Yet, that logo. That tiny pink logo had me relapsing fast.
With my fingers trembling I ripped the envelope open, my eyes racing over the letter addressed to my husband.
I wish I didn’t.
Crippling pain electrified my nervous system with each word and sentence that I read.
“As per your request please find your test results disclosed below…”
His full STD panel was negative…but that’s not what broke me. That was left to the ending paragraph that wrapped up the intimate letter with a lovely soul-destroying bow.
“Based on your latest semen analysis your vasectomy remains viable after thirteen years. However, this is not a failsafe method to verify paternity. If you require further clarification, we also offer accurate and discreet DNA tests…”
Black invaded my vision, blocking out the hurtful words screaming from the page.
I don’t want to see anymore. Please don’t let me see anymore.
As if answering my desperate call, my brain shut everything down.
All I remember was falling.
Fingers pressed the inside of my wrist, while someone stroked my hair.
My eyes fluttered open to my husband hovering above me. But there was something wrong. He looked stressed, his eyes wide with panic as his brows scrunched together.
A tinged haze coated my senses, blocking me from something, as if in protection.
Hypnotised, my hand raised to smooth the harsh lines of his face. “What’s wrong, honey?”
Nico gasped then dragged me into his lap, squeezing so tight I could hardly breath. His lips scattered kisses down my face, his tone urgent and rushed.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Fucking hell, Gabs. You gave me a heart attack. I walked in the door and found you unconscious. Don’t ever do that to me again. I thought I fucking lost you. I can never lose you. Fuck, babe.”
He was trembling, shock had him overtaken.
Slowly, ever so slowly the haze began to lift.
Floor? Why was I on the floor? Why did I have this sense of dread in my gut that made me want to vomit? Why did my husband’s touch make that feeling worse?
The momentary confusion began to fade as I detangled myself out of our position.
“Careful, careful,” he said, hovering beside me as I used the cupboards as leverage to stand.
That’s when I realised, I should have just stayed on the fucking ground.
My gaze caught on the incriminating letter, innocently placed on the kitchen bench as if the printed page didn’t just rip me apart.
That’s right. That’s why I was on the floor.
Nico went to reach for me, and I flinched. He tried again and I just couldn’t.
Couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t hear him.
I didn’t want to.
My entire being was already breaking without the extra ammunition he was about to unload on me.
“Babe, what’s wrong. Come here, I need to make sure you’re okay.”
Instead of replying I pushed the destructive piece of paper over the counter for him to read.
A resounding quiet coated the atmosphere as he skimmed the offering.
That’s when I raised my eyes, opened my senses completely. To catalogue and watch his genuine reaction.
I wanted him to refute the words. To claim it was a misunderstanding. To curse and say he would sue the company for mixing up the wrong clients.
Anything.
But as soon as I saw his features, his body language, the unrelenting fear creeping over his frame.
I knew it was true.
My husband, my best friend, was not who he claimed to be.
Then when his guilty eyes swept up to mine my hand whipped out to slap him hard across the face.
My palm stung; my chest ached…everything hurt.