The clinic was on the third floor of a medical building with a parking garage and a fountain in the lobby, and Ian sat in the waiting room with a magazine he did not read.
The doctor's name was Dr. Amara Whitfield, and she was patient and careful and asked me four times if I was sure, and each time I said yes. On the fourth time, she looked at me for a while and then said, "You don't have to explain. But if you want to, I have time."
I looked at the wall, which had a poster on it about folic acid.
"My husband and his father planned my pregnancy as a bone marrow match for his niece," I said. "They tested my blood without my consent before we got married. They have a second woman set up, due the same week, as a backup. If I have this baby, that baby is a donor. Not a person. A donor. And
