TRUTH
The waiting room was nothing like the fertility clinic.
No marble floors. No designer furniture. No intimidating glass walls that made you feel like you were being watched.
This was a professional medical building in the Tulane Medical District, all clean lines and modern efficiency.
The waiting room had soft gray walls, comfortable seating, and a reception desk staffed by a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and silver-streaked locs.
The sign outside read Dr. Camille Broussard, OB-GYN – High-Risk Pregnancy Specialist in elegant lettering.
I sat in one of the cushioned chairs near the window, my hands folded in my lap, trying to keep my breathing steady.
This was mine.
My choice. My doctor. My appointment.
No one from the Landry family knew I was here. Not Amai. Not Kaisen. Not Winston.
Just me.
The receptionist smiled warmly when I checked in. She didn’t ask questions when I said I’d be paying cash. Didn’t bat an eye when I requested that no information be released to anyone without my written permission.
She just nodded and said, “We’ll take good care of you, Ms. Renois.”
And for the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe.
The door to the back opened, and a nurse appeared—young, Black, with box braids pulled into a high ponytail.
“Truth Renois?”
I stood, my purse clutched tight in my hands, and followed her down a hallway lined with framed photos of babies and families.
Real families.
Not contracts. Not surrogacy arrangements. Not power plays.
Just… families.
The exam room was small but clean, with pale blue walls and a large window that let in natural light. The ultrasound machine sat in the corner, its screen dark and waiting.
“Go ahead and have a seat,” the nurse said, gesturing to the exam table. “Dr. Broussard will be with you in just a moment. Do you need anything? Water? Crackers?”
“I’m okay. Thank you.”
She smiled and closed the door softly behind her.
I sat on the edge of the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath me, and stared at my hands.
My fingers were trembling.
I pressed them together, willing them to stop, but the anxiety was too big. Too consuming.
What if the babies weren’t okay?
What if something was wrong?
What if—
The door opened, and a woman stepped inside.
She was tall, maybe in her early fifties, with deep brown skin and natural hair styled in a short, elegant cut. She wore navy scrubs and a white coat, her stethoscope draped around her neck. Her eyes were sharp but warm, assessing but kind.
“Ms. Renois.” She extended her hand, and I shook it. Her grip was firm, confident. “I’m Dr. Camille Broussard. It’s good to meet you.”
“You too.”
She pulled a rolling stool over and sat down, her movements unhurried. She opened the tablet in her hands and glanced at the screen, then back at me.
“I’ve reviewed the information you provided when you called,” she said. “And I want to start by saying that this is a safe space. Whatever you need, whatever questions you have—I’m here to help. My only priority is you and your babies’ health. Understood?”
I nodded, my throat tight.
“Good.” She set the tablet aside and leaned forward slightly. “Now, let’s talk about what’s going on. You’re carrying twins, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you were told this pregnancy was the result of a surrogacy arrangement through a fertility clinic?”
“New Beginnings Fertility Center,” I said quietly. “It’s owned by the Landry family.”
Dr. Broussard’s expression didn’t change, but I saw something flicker in her eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or concern.
“And you’ve since discovered that the circumstances surrounding the implantation were… unusual?”
“That’s putting it lightly.” My voice cracked, and I hated how weak I sounded. “I found out that two different men’s sperm were used. Without my knowledge. Without my consent.”
Dr. Broussard’s jaw tightened. “That’s a serious violation, Ms. Renois. Both medically and legally.”
“I know.”
“Have you contacted an attorney?”
“Yes. She’s the one who got me the fertility records.” I pulled the thick manila envelope from my purse and handed it to her. “Everything’s in there. The contract. The procedure notes. The lab reports.”
Dr. Broussard took the envelope and opened it, her eyes scanning the documents with the precision of someone who knew exactly what she was looking for.
After a long moment, she looked up.
“This is highly irregular,” she said carefully. “Dual implantation with separate specimens is not standard practice. And the fact that it was done without your explicit, informed consent…” She shook her head. “This clinic should be investigated.”
“I just want to know if my babies are okay,” I said, my voice breaking. “That’s all I care about right now.”
Dr. Broussard’s expression softened. “Then let’s find out.”
She stood and moved to the ultrasound machine, powering it on. The screen flickered to life, casting a soft blue glow across the room.
“Go ahead and lie back,” she said gently. “This won’t take long.”
I shifted on the table, the paper crinkling again, and lay back. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Dr. Broussard lifted my shirt, exposing my stomach, and squeezed a generous amount of gel onto my skin. It was cold, and I flinched.
“Sorry about that,” she murmured.
She pressed the transducer against my abdomen and moved it slowly, her eyes fixed on the screen.
I turned my head to look.
And there they were.
Two tiny shapes, curled together in the darkness of my womb. Two flickering heartbeats, strong and steady.
My breath caught.
“There’s Baby A,” Dr. Broussard said, pointing to the screen. “And there’s Baby B. Both are measuring appropriately for gestational age. Heartbeats are strong—160 and 158 beats per minute. Placental positioning looks good. No signs of distress.”
Tears blurred my vision.
They were okay.
They were real.
“They’re healthy?” I whispered.
“From what I can see right now, yes. They’re healthy.” Dr. Broussard glanced at me, her expression kind. “You’re doing a good job taking care of them, Ms. Renois.”
I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to hold back the sob that was building in my chest.
Dr. Broussard gave me a moment, then wiped the gel from my stomach and helped me sit up.
“Now,” she said, her tone shifting to something more clinical, “let’s talk about what comes next.”
I nodded, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.
“You want to know which baby belongs to which father or if they both belong to one father,” Dr. Broussard said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“There are a few testing options available. The most common is non-invasive prenatal paternity testing, or NIPP. It uses a blood sample from you to analyze fetal DNA. It’s safe, accurate, and can be done as early as eight weeks.”
“How accurate?”
“Over 99%.”
I exhaled slowly. “What are the risks?”
“For NIPP? Minimal. It’s a blood draw, so there’s no risk to the babies. The only limitation is that with twins, the results can sometimes be more complex to interpret. We’ll need samples from both potential fathers to compare.”
My stomach twisted.
Amai and Kaisen.
“What if I don’t want them involved?” I asked quietly.
Dr. Broussard studied me for a moment. “You don’t need their permission to run the test. But you will need their DNA samples for comparison. That can be done discreetly if necessary.”
I thought about the toothbrush I’d seen in Amai’s bathroom. The coffee cup Kaisen had left at my house.
“I can get samples,” I said.
“Good.” Dr. Broussard made a note on her tablet. “I’ll order the test today. We should have results within seven to ten business days.”
Seven to ten days.
That felt like a lifetime.
“Is there anything else I should know?” I asked.
Dr. Broussard hesitated, and I saw the concern flicker across her face again.
“With twins,” she said carefully, “there’s always a slightly higher risk of complications. Preterm labor. Preeclampsia. Growth restrictions. But you’re young, and from what I can see, you’re healthy. We’ll monitor you closely.”
“Okay.”
“And Ms. Renois?” She leaned forward slightly, her voice firm but kind. “I need you to understand something. This pregnancy—these babies—they’re yours. Not the Landry family’s. Not the fathers’. Yours. You have the right to make decisions about your own body and your own medical care. No one else.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
Yours.
“I don’t want them at my appointments,” I said, my voice stronger now. “Amai or Kaisen. I don’t want them here.”
“Then they won’t be,” Dr. Broussard said simply. “I’ll make a note in your file. No one will be allowed into your appointments without your explicit permission.”
“Thank you.”
“Who would you like listed as your emergency contact?”
I thought for a moment. “My mother. Delphine Renois.”
Dr. Broussard typed the information into her tablet. “Phone number?”
I rattled it off, and she entered it without hesitation.
“Done,” she said. “Is there anything else you need from me today?”
I shook my head, feeling the weight in my chest start to lift.
“Then I’ll see you back here in two weeks for your next appointment,” Dr. Broussard said, standing. “In the meantime, if you have any concerns—bleeding, cramping, anything that doesn’t feel right—you call me immediately. Day or night. And get those DNA samples to me as soon as you can.”
She handed me a card with her office number and her personal cell written on the back.
“Thank you,” I said again, my voice thick with emotion. “And I will.”
Dr. Broussard smiled. “You’re going to be okay, Ms. Renois. You and your babies.”
I left the office twenty minutes later, the late afternoon sun warm on my face.
My hands were still trembling, but it wasn’t from fear anymore.
It was from relief.
For the first time since I’d signed that contract, the pregnancy felt like mine.
Not Amai’s. Not Kaisen’s. Not Winston’s.
Mine.
I slid into my car and sat there for a long moment, staring at the ultrasound photos Dr. Broussard had printed for me.
Two tiny shapes. Two heartbeats.
My babies.