Chapter 3 - Ellie’s mother
My wife was Camille Moretti.
She died when Ellie was four.
Breast cancer.
Not assassination.
Not a yacht explosion.
Not some romantic Mafia tragedy.
Cancer does not care about reputation.
Before Ellie was conceived, Camille and I had spent nearly three years trying to have a child.
Testing eventually showed:
I had severe male-factor infertility.
Not absolutely zero chance.
Close enough that our doctors recommended assisted reproduction.
We tried IVF using my sperm twice.
No viable pregnancy.
Then a specialist discussed donor sperm.
I hated the idea at first.
Not because donor conception was shameful.
Because I had built my entire identity around control.
And biology had given me something I could not intimidate.
Camille said:
“You want to be a father, Donovan. Not a DNA sample.”
She was right.
Eventually, we selected an open-identity donor through a licensed program.
Nathaniel Reed.
Medical student then.
Healthy screening.
Family history available.
Identity accessible to the child under specified conditions later.
Ellie was conceived through assisted reproduction.
I was present for every appointment.
I signed every form.
I held Camille’s hand.
I cut Ellie’s umbilical cord.
I became her legal father from birth.
Nathaniel was her genetic donor.
May you like
Those were both facts.
Neither reduced the other.
