Julian had always been the “solid” one. In his marriage to Sarah, he was the fixer of leaky faucets and the navigator of road trips. Together, they had built a life in a quiet suburb that felt insulated from the chaos of the world. Their two sons—Toby, ten, and Max, seven—were Julian’s pride. Toby had Julian’s competitive streak on the soccer field; Max had Julian’s habit of biting his lip when he was concentrating on a Lego set.
The fertility test had been a fluke. A routine physical for a new life insurance policy had flagged some hormonal irregularities. The follow-up was supposed to be a formality.
But as Julian sat in his idling car, the PDF attachment on his screen told a different story. Non-obstructive azoospermia. The report noted a genetic marker indicating he had been unable to produce sperm since birth.
“Dad, can we get extra sauce?” Toby yelled from the backseat.
Julian stared into the rearview mirror. He looked at Toby’s blue eyes—eyes Julian had always told people he’d inherited from his own grandfather. But Julian’s grandfather was dead, and the lab report in his hand was a living, breathing verdict. Julian wasn’t a father. He was an observer in someone else’s family.
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