My marriage license is a fake. The state has no record of it. And at my first prenatal appointment, the receptionist told me my husband, Grant Halloran, is already registered as the father of another woman's baby—same due date as mine. I left with the license in my hand and my chest held still. At his office, Grant didn't deny it. His father called it an administrative problem. Then I remembered a dinner in February, when Douglas asked if my brother had ever been tested for bone marrow compatibility. It wasn't a strange question. It was an inventory. I am eleven weeks pregnant. Grant thinks I will come home and talk. Instead, I call my brother and search my husband's locked study, photographing every file with my name on it. He signed away my prenatal file. He will not use my child.