my grandson.”
Part Sixteen: The Letter
In October, the boys brought up the donor.
We were having Sunday dinner at Dana’s. It had become a weekly ritual. One week pot roast at Dana’s, the next spaghetti at ours.
“Can we find him?” Ben asked. “Donor 4127. Is that allowed?”
Dana and I exchanged glances.
The clinic had operated anonymously when we used it. Things had since changed. Online DNA databases had transformed everything.
“I don’t know,” Dana said. “We’d have to ask the clinic. And he’d have to agree.”
Luke
