THE DOCTOR’S SECRET - Some Secrets Aren’t Buried — They’re Living Next Door
A shocking tale of identity, betrayal, and the doctor who rewrote dozens of lives.
Story: S A Spencer
Author of Popular Fictions: The Pink Mutiny, The Black Waters, Dream In Shackles
She was
halfway across the pedestrian crossing on Collins Street when her phone buzzed
again — the same unknown number, the same message preview that made her stomach
drop.
“We need
to talk. It’s about your father.”
The tram
bell clanged, jolting her back. She stepped onto the footpath, heart thudding,
breath sharp in the cool Melbourne air. She didn’t open the message. She
couldn’t. Not here, not with strangers brushing past, not with her pulse
hammering like she’d just sprinted the length of Bourke Street Mall.
She shoved
the phone into her coat pocket and kept walking, but the words followed her
like a shadow.
It’s
about your father.
Except the
man she called her father had been dead for twelve years.
And the
person texting her claimed he wasn’t her father at all.
The phone
buzzed again.
She stopped
walking.
This time,
she opened it.
“Please.
I’m your half‑sister.”
The world
tilted.
A gust of
wind whipped her hair across her face, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.
Half‑sister? Impossible. Her parents had struggled to conceive — she knew that
— but they’d never spoken about donors. They’d said IVF, yes. Donor sperm, no.
Never.
Her thumb
hovered over the reply button.
Another
message arrived.
“There
are more of us.”
Her knees
weakened.
She typed
one word.
“How?”
The reply
came instantly.
“It’s the
doctor. He used his own sperm.”
The city
noise faded. The tram bells, the chatter, the traffic — all of it dissolved
into a ringing silence.
Her phone
slipped from her hand and clattered onto the pavement.
And that was
how the truth began.
She sat in
her car for nearly an hour before she could bring herself to drive home. The
messages replayed in her mind like a broken record. She didn’t know the woman’s
name. She didn’t know how many “more of us” meant. She didn’t know if this was
a scam, a mistake, or something far darker.
But she knew
one thing: she needed answers.
Her mother’s
house was only twenty minutes away, tucked in a quiet street in Essendon. She
parked outside and sat there, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles
turned white.
Her mother
opened the door before she even knocked.
“You look
pale, love. Everything alright?”
She stepped
inside, the familiar scent of eucalyptus cleaner and old books wrapping around
her like a memory she suddenly didn’t trust.
“Mum,” she
said, voice tight. “I need to ask you something.”
Her mother’s
smile faltered.
“What is
it?”
She
swallowed hard.
“When you
and Dad were trying to have me… did you use a donor?”
The silence
was immediate. Heavy. Suffocating.
Her mother’s
eyes flickered — guilt, fear, something else she couldn’t name.
“Why are you
asking me that?”
“Because
someone messaged me,” she said. “They said they’re my half‑sister. They said
the doctor used his own—”
Her mother’s
hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh God.”
Her heart
plummeted.
“Mum… is it
true?”
Her mother
sank into the nearest chair, trembling.
“I didn’t
know,” she whispered. “I swear to you, I didn’t know.”
She felt the
room tilt again.
“What didn’t
you know?”
Her mother
looked up, eyes shining with tears.
“That he
used himself.”
The air left
her lungs.
Her mother
reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
“Mum… how
many?”
Her mother
shook her head helplessly.
“I don’t
know. I don’t know.”
Her phone
buzzed again.
She didn’t
look at it.
She
couldn’t.
Not yet.
She didn’t
sleep that night. She lay awake in her apartment, staring at the ceiling,
replaying every childhood moment that suddenly felt tainted. Every birthday.
Every family photo. Every time she’d looked in the mirror and wondered why she
didn’t look like her father.
At 3:17am,
she finally opened the new message.
“There
are at least twenty of us confirmed. Probably more.”
Her chest
tightened.
Another
message followed.
“We’re
meeting tomorrow. You should come.”
She stared
at the screen, heart pounding.
A meeting?
With strangers who shared her DNA? With people created by a man who had
violated every ethical boundary imaginable?
She typed
back.
“Where?”
The reply
came instantly.
“Carlton
Gardens. Near the fountain. 11am.”
She didn’t
respond.
But she
didn’t delete the message either.
The next
morning, she stood at the edge of Carlton Gardens, hands shoved deep into her
coat pockets, breath fogging in the crisp air. The fountain gurgled softly, and
the early sun cast long shadows across the grass.
She almost
turned around.
Then she saw
them.
A small
group gathered near the fountain — five women, two men, all roughly her age.
They looked up as she approached, and something inside her twisted.
Because she
recognised them.
Not
personally. But in the shape of their eyes. The curve of their jawlines. The
way their hair curled at the ends.
They looked
like her.
A woman
stepped forward.
“You must be
her,” she said gently. “I’m Emily.”
Emily. The
one who’d messaged her.
She nodded
stiffly.
Emily
offered a sad smile.
“I know this
is overwhelming.”
“That’s one
word for it.”
Emily
gestured to the group.
“We’ve been
meeting for a few months now. Every time someone new does a DNA test, the
number grows.”
“How many?”
she whispered.
Emily
hesitated.
“We’re at
thirty‑four confirmed.”
Her stomach
lurched.
“And the
doctor?” she asked. “Does he know?”
Emily’s
expression darkened.
“He knows,”
she said. “He just doesn’t care.”
A cold wind
swept through the gardens.
“What do you
mean?”
Emily pulled
out her phone and tapped the screen. She held it out.
A news
article.
A headline.
A photo of
an elderly man in a suit, smiling like he’d never done anything wrong.
“Retired
fertility specialist denies wrongdoing in donor scandal.”
Her blood
ran cold.
“He’s still
alive?”
Emily
nodded.
“And he
lives right here in Melbourne.”
Her breath
caught.
“Where?”
Emily
hesitated again.
“You don’t
want to know.”
She stepped
closer.
“Yes. I do.”
Emily
exhaled slowly.
“He lives in
Kew.”
Her pulse
quickened.
Kew. Fifteen
minutes from her apartment.
Emily
lowered her voice.
“And some of
us… we’ve been trying to talk to him.”
She frowned.
“What do you
mean ‘trying’?”
Emily looked
away.
“He won’t
open the door.”
A chill
crept up her spine.
“Then what
do you want from me?”
Emily met
her eyes.
“We want to
confront him. Together.”
Her heart
thudded.
“And you
want me to come?”
Emily
nodded.
“You deserve
answers too.”
She looked
at the group — at the faces that mirrored hers, at the lives intertwined with
hers without her consent.
She took a
shaky breath.
“When?”
Emily’s
answer was immediate.
“Tonight.”
The house in
Kew was larger than she expected — a sprawling, ivy‑covered place with tall
hedges and a wrought‑iron gate. The kind of house that whispered old money and
old secrets.
They stood
at the gate as the sun dipped behind the rooftops, casting the street in a
dusky glow. Emily pressed the intercom.
Silence.
She pressed
it again.
A crackle.
A voice.
“Who is it?”
Emily
stepped forward.
“It’s your
children.”
A long,
heavy pause.
Then the
voice returned, colder this time.
“I have
nothing to say to you.”
Emily’s jaw
tightened.
“We’re not
leaving.”
The intercom
clicked off.
The group
exchanged glances.
She felt her
pulse racing.
“What now?”
she whispered.
Emily’s eyes
hardened.
“We wait.”
Minutes
passed. Then ten. Then twenty. The street grew darker, quieter. A dog barked
somewhere in the distance.
Then —
footsteps.
The front
door opened.
A man
stepped out.
Tall. Grey‑haired.
Sharp‑eyed.
The doctor.
He walked to
the gate slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world.
When he
reached them, he looked at each face one by one — studying them, assessing
them, almost admiring them.
Then his
gaze landed on her.
He smiled.
A small,
chilling smile.
“You,” he
said softly. “You look just like your mother.”
Her breath
caught.
“You know
who I am?”
“Oh yes,” he
said. “I remember all of you.”
Emily
stepped forward, voice shaking with anger.
“Why did you
do it?”
The doctor
tilted his head.
“Because I
could.”
Her stomach
twisted.
Emily’s
voice rose.
“You
violated our mothers. You lied to all of us.”
He shrugged.
“I gave them
what they wanted. A child.”
She felt
something inside her snap.
“You didn’t
give us anything,” she said. “You stole our identities.”
The doctor’s
eyes gleamed.
“On the
contrary,” he said. “I created you.”
The group
recoiled.
She stepped
closer to the gate, fury burning through her.
“You’re not
a creator,” she said. “You’re a coward.”
The doctor’s
smile faded.
For the
first time, she saw something flicker in his eyes — not guilt, not remorse, but
fear.
He leaned
in.
“You
shouldn’t have come here.”
Her breath
hitched.
“Why?”
He looked
past her, scanning the group.
“Because
you’re not the only ones looking for me.”
A cold
shiver ran down her spine.
“What do you
mean?”
The doctor
stepped back toward the house.
“You’ll find
out soon enough.”
He turned
and walked inside.
The door
slammed shut.
The group
stood frozen.
Emily
whispered, “What the hell does that mean?”
She didn’t
answer.
Because her
phone buzzed again.
A new
message.
From an
unknown number.
“Don’t
trust them. He’s not the only one with secrets.”
Her blood
ran cold.
She opened
the message.
A second
line appeared.
“Meet me
tomorrow. I’m your real sibling.”
Comments
Post a Comment