Sins of the Lines

Sins of the Lines Sharhonda Exantus Copyright © 2023 by Sharhonda Exantus All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ISBN for paperback: 979-8-218-07751-8 ISBN for E-book: 979-8-218-12785-5 For my husband, Christian Contents Prologue 1. Evie 2. Tori 3. Tori 4. Chris 5. Chris 6. Evie 7. Chris 8. Tori 9. Chris 10. Chris 11. Evie 12. Tori 13. Chris 14. Chris 15. Chris 16. Tori 17. Evie 18. Chris 19. Tori 20. Chris 21. Chris 22. Tori 23. Tori 24. Evie 25. Chris 26. Chris 27. Chris 28. Tori 29. Evie 30. Chris 31. Chris 32. Chris 33. Chris 34. Tori 35. Tori 36. Tori 37. Tori 38. Tori 39. Chris 40. Evie 41. Chris 42. Chris 43. Chris 44. Chris 45. Tori 46. Chris 47. Tori 48. Chris 49. Tori 50. Chris 51. Tori Epilogue About the Author Prologue Before The woman watched the clock, counting each tick as the second hand traveled round and round. The ticking was deafening—reverberating off the hollow, white walls of the hospital room. She glanced nervously at the door and then back at the clock, a feeling of dread building in the pit of her stomach. 7:45 a.m. The procedure would be starting soon. She could feel her heartbeat quicken. The small room was eerily quiet except for the sound of the clock and the beeping of the monitors that she was hooked up to. She glanced down at her arms and gently touched the clear syringes that pierced her skin. They pulsed fluids through her body from the IV bag hanging on the silver pole next to her bed. The light pink hospital gown that the staff had given her to wear was flimsy, barely covering her naked body. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. The thought of what was ahead terrified her. Dr. Southerland had explained the procedure a hundred times, yet she still felt uneasy. A hysteroscopic operation was what he’d called it—a procedure that would allow him to remove the uterine adhesions that had plagued her life for years. It was their last attempt to repair some of the damage that had been done—to give her a chance at a life free from pain. The procedure was by no means a cure; Dr. Southerland had been clear on that. “Don’t expect a miracle,” he’d warned her. Even with this intervention, the odds of restoring her fertility were slim to none. It had been a devastating blow, a hard reality to face. After years of treatments and seeing countless doctors, she was hit with the harsh truth that she would probably never bear a child of her own. Dr. Southerland had described her case as severe—unlike any other that he had ever seen in all his years of practice. He’d once been optimistic, indulging her requests to try new treatments as they became available. But as the months turned to years, even she could see his optimism fading. With her complex medical history and advancing age, her odds of conceiving again were slim. At her last visit to his office, he’d sat her down and delivered the news she’d been dreading. She could still remember the look on his face—his worn, pale skin with those sad, blue eyes looking at her with pity from behind his large-framed glasses. “Performing a hysteroscopic operation is your best option at this point,” he’d explained. “Asherman’s syndrome can be severe for some women, and I’m afraid that is what we’re seeing in your case. Unfortunately, I don’t think the procedure is going to do much good as far as your fertility. At this point, the removal of the uterine adhesions is solely to improve your quality of life.” She’d sat there motionless as the shock of the news sank in. “There are always other options,” he’d said, hoping to lighten the mood of the conversation and provide her with a glimmer of hope. “There’s always surrogacy or even adoption. You can still have children.” She stared back at him but didn’t speak. A surrogate was out of the question. Women paid tens of thousands of dollars for those services, and that was something that she and her husband just could not afford. They had already spent thousands on fertility treatments, draining their savings account until they had next to nothing left. And the idea of adoption had never crossed her mind. She didn’t want someone else’s baby. She wanted her own. There was a soft knock at the hospital room door. She sat up in the bed and wiped away the tears that streaked her face. “Come in.” The door opened slowly. An older nurse appeared in the doorway. She was a small, wiry woman with scrubs that seemed too big for her small frame. She took small, shuffling steps over to the bed and smiled down at her. Her oversized veneers were the same color as the blanched hospital room walls. They seemed to take up her entire face as she smiled. “We are all set to start your procedure, hun.” She stared back at the nurse, her eyes blank and emotionless. She couldn’t speak. Tears were stinging the backs of her eyes again. She turned away as she tried hard to force them back. “We’re going to wheel you down the hall to where Dr. Southerland is going to do your procedure,” explained the nurse. “Before we start, we’re going to give you something to help you sleep since this procedure will be a little more involved.” She nodded her head but remained silent. Her