The day my daughter's heart condition flared up, Grant Whitmore was busy whispering sweet nothings to his secretary.   My hands shook as I called him.   "Grant! Lucy's having another episode. Please come and see her!"   But Monica Shaw answered his phone.   "Mrs. Whitmore, please stop making things up about your child," she said mockingly.   My daughter had always been frail and often fell ill. After listening to Monica for long enough, Grant had come to believe I was using Lucy to get his sympathy.   Lucy opened her eyes and stared blankly out the window.   "Is Daddy not coming this time either?"   My heart twisted. My voice was hoarse as I said, "Lucy really is sick. I'm not lying."   Grant took the phone. "Enough. What kind of mother uses her own child to play the victim?"   Then I heard Monica's coy voice in the background.   "Grant, the baby's kicking."   A second later, the line went dead.   I gripped the phone until my fingers went white.   So that was why he treated Lucy this way. He had another child on the way.   Lucy buried her face in my shoulder and sobbed quietly. I lifted her off the hospital bed and soothed her.   "Sweetheart, we don't need Daddy anymore."   There was something Grant didn't know.   He'd been born with poor sperm motility, and the condition had worsened over time.   His test results came back last week. He now had azoospermia. He had no viable sperm at all.