A year after she stole my husband, my former best friend mailed me an invitation to her baby shower. “Come celebrate our little miracle,” she wrote, adding a smiley face. “Sorry you couldn’t give him a son.”

Below it, in pink ink, she had added: Sorry you couldn’t give him a son.

For a moment, the room spun slightly around me.

Then my gaze shifted toward the second envelope already opened on the counter. White. Plain. Clinical.

The DNA clinic logo sat at the top like a sentence being handed down.

For six years, my ex-husband Daniel had convinced me I was the broken one. Six years of hormone injections, fertility specialists, invasive tests, tears, and his disappointed sighs every time another result came back negative. Six years of my best friend Camille holding my hand while secretly holding him too.