"Let's say I believe you?" I spoke after a long silence, "Where is your proof?" I trembled as I got the words out. Afraid that what he was saying was true.

He handed me the documents as he spoke, "If you waited for me to explain four years ago, I would have given you the evidence, but you left without a trace, even your grandmother and aunt didn't know anything about you."

I looked over at the pile of paper and the dates that were written on each medical certificate. A few hours have passed, and I still sat in the same seat as I looked at the Professor who sat there waiting for me to say anything, but I couldn't. I still couldn't believe it.

It has said in the medical records that they have done a Vitro Fertilization which is an assisted reproductive technology referred to as . is the process of fertilization by extracting eggs, retrieving a sperm sample, and then manually combining an egg and sperm in a laboratory dish.

The embryo(s) is then transferred to the uterus, Mine.

"You've turned out very differently from what I'd imagined, Wahaj," he muses quietly. "I mean, If someone told me four years ago that this is how you turned, I would spit into his face."

As soon as the last syllable leaves his mouth, his face contorts in horror. For a moment he looks shocked at himself - as if he hadn't entirely planned to say precisely what he's said. He's a professor; every word is planned, yet the legislator in him has always been able to simulate shame quite well.

"Wahaj, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean-"

At that moment in time, I smiled; I remembered my first time being called to the professor's office during my junior year. He had a red pen all over my paper, and I trembled in fear of his mere annoyance. Now his lectures seemed the only regular part in my life. It was the only thing soothing in the changeable environment I was in.

"Why are you sorry," I held into the papers he had given me. "I turned into a conniving witch, then. Is that what you're saying, Professor?"

"No, Wahaj," he hisses. "I never-"

"I turned into you instead of living some insignificant, unimportant life, hiding from the world because that is what I should do? Is that what you thought, love?"

He moves in closer again. "Wahaj, I never meant to-"

I jerk forward quickly, our faces so close they're almost touching. My voice shakes when I speak.

"You do not know me. Don't think that because you married me that you know a thing about me, You never bothered to" I hiss, "a thing about what I want or what I think or why I do the things I do."

"Wahaj, I don't want to argue with you. I just want to-"

"We're not arguing, Professor," I say much more steadily. "Tomorrow, I will meet you in the hospital. I'll watch you, talk to you, talk to your team, and learn from Ibrahim Yilmaz, My Professor." The paper I held dear to me, I throw down on the table before standing up. "You have nothing to fear from me in that regard, Professor," I sneer.

Ibrahim stands up and quickly reaches out, grabbing me just above my wrist. I gasp quietly at the contact. He moves in closer.

"Wahaj," – he says my name smoothly, in that way, he used to have that would send shudders through me – "I never wanted things to be this way between us. How did we get here?"

I look up at him, into those hypnotizing green eyes and remember a time when I allowed myself to get lost in them when I believed anything he said as long as he was looking at me through those eyes. I close my eyes to ground myself before opening them up again.

"You know exactly how we got here, and how things will or will not be between us will be entirely up to you, Ibrahim. As I said, we'll work together this course and keep things as professional as possible." I raise my other hand and discreetly yet firmly remove his grip from my arm. "But when the course is over, you and I are over, Professor. Don't come near my father and me again."

I make my way out.

******

I couldn't believe Ibrahim, not after everything we went through. I find facts to be the only reliable source, and they came from DNA.

After my talk with the professor, I went to Lila in the hospital and recited quran to sooth her pain. Without my father and Layan there, I collected buccal (cheek) cells found inside the cheek using a cheek swab from Lila before she fell asleep.

I observed her face as she slept soundly. She had his eyes, my nose, my face shape, his kidney inside of her, his declarations can't be real. But then I think about it as a possibility since my kidney didn't match with hers. I shake that off once I see my eyes starting to water.

As promised, the next day, the girl with me, Camila's credentials are waiting with the hospital's security officers at the entrance to the white building. We place our equipment through the conveyor belts, remove shoes and jewellery, wear lab coats and the necessary pieces of equipment, and are quickly escorted to where experiment and research were beginning to take place in the lab.

I spend about an hour observing the scientists working in the lab. I start working on the information I've gathered through proper research.

Poor Professor - out of all his student admirers who could've been assigned to work side by side with him on this specific piece, it had to be me, probably the one person in the world who didn't want to be anywhere near him.

Occasionally, I look up from the paper to see what's going on around me; The other students that were selected seemed to look like they were stuck inside a candy shop. They looked at the professor with admiring eyes and respect that seemed to lack in comparison with my eyes. I sat alone in the table and looked at the professor from afar.

He is lying.

Seemed the only sentence I could repeat to myself to keep me from falling. The other students and the professor seemed to be debating the research pieces each student came up within these few hours we spent in the lab. I pay as much attention as possible while scanning my documents.

While the professor speaks, all eyes are on him. There are none of the squirmings, of the boredom, of the monotony that there was before him. And there's so much passion, so much belief in his knowledge that when he's done, there's no possible way any of the scientists or students can disagree with him.

While all the attention in the room was on him, his focus was derived to me, but he never calls me not even once. The rest of the day goes by in a whirlwind of medical activity. When the professor gives a half an hour recess, Camila and I gather our things.

"Ms Muhammad," Professor greets me as Camila, and I discuss our plans for the research.

I mentally draw in a deep breath and can only hope it's helped me appear calm because inside it does no use. My mind is still on what he told me yesterday. When I look up and meet his eyes, I'm grateful that there's no way he can know the effect he's had on me.

"Professor," I grin. "It was quite an interesting morning."

He grins back smugly. "I'm glad you thought so. I'd hate to bore you so early into the course."

"I wasn't bored at all. You were quite in your element."

We hold each other's gazes.

Camila clears her throat. "Professor, Do you think that this will be a scientific and medical breakthrough, or will it be misused to undermine human rights and human equality?"

Camila looks as if she's about to pass out from the honour since the professor isn't so prominent on taking the question, but he answered none the less his attention still on me, "Once this technology hit the marketplace, there would be no going back. This is why most European counties have steered clear of this unnecessary and unacceptably dangerous trajectory. None, the less several futurists and scientists, have continued to press the case for proceeding. Some enthuse about "enhancing" next-generation children with traits ranging from super-strong bones to night vision based on owl DNA,"

Camila gasps at that as the professor seemed impassive but continues, "Others present germline modification as a medical procedure, though that's a stretch since by definition it would not treat any existing patient,"

They exchange small talk as the other students join in and some scientists in the lab while I look about the room and swing my laptop bag in front of me.

"Ms Muhammad," Ibrahim says, his attention back on me, "do you have any questions for me so far?"

"I have plenty of questions, but as you directed yesterday, I'm holding them until the end of the day so as not to disturb you."

He smirks. "Well, it's lunch-time. There's a restaurant a few blocks from here where we can-"

"Thank you, but Camila and I were discussing the possibility of meeting with some of your staff. We just need your okay and directions to your children's hospital."

He stares at me. "I'm sure we can make arrangements, Ms Muhammad. Follow me, please."

He puts one hand on the small of my back and begins to lead me out of the lab, down to the hallway through the large double doors. Behind us, I hear Camilla fast on our heels. When the tips of his fingers remain on my back, I start squirming, and his hand drops away.

"Would you like to walk or should we go by car? It's just a couple of buildings away."

"I can walk, Professor. I can walk quite a bit."

He nods and quietly leads the way down full streets that allow a clear foot of space between us. It's so different from the last time we walked down streets together – when he ran to find me after my grandmother brought me to his house when some part of him touched or held some part of me at all times and he was afraid of a simple scratch to come in contact with me.

I wonder if he even remembers any of it with anything other than some vague recollection. There's nothing in his demeanour to indicate that he does. His gait is smooth and controlled, eyes trained straight ahead.

When he speaks, his voice is calm and composed. "Who exactly would you like to speak with, Ms Muhammad?"

I'm grateful that he's keeping things professional as we agreed yesterday. We'll keep things this way until the results are out then when this is over. I'll tell him what I need to say to him.

"I was hoping to get a few minutes with the chief geneticist in the children's ward if that's possible. I thought perhaps today would be a better day for that meeting before things get more hectic later on this course."

He nods, expressionless, eyes still straight ahead. "I don't think that should be a problem."

We finish our short, five-minute walk in silence, and then Yilmaz moves ahead and opens a door for me. We walk into a large building with children wards divided into different sectors. People greet him with grins and obvious affection, throwing questions and comments at him left and right.

"I'll get back to you in a few minutes," he tells them all and continues moving us forward. Another door leads to a smaller room; an office.

The young bloke behind the desk hangs up the phone. He walks over with a pleasant smile and soft blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Tall and lean, he wears his suit almost as well as Yilmaz wears his.

"And this is Mehmet Umut, my cousin and chief geneticist."

"Ms Muhammad, Yilmaz has shown me yours and O'hare research, I'd just like to welcome you to our hospital. You'll find that we're a very tight-knit group, and we're all pretty easygoing. I'm at your disposal for anything you may want or need."

I suppress a smirk when I notice that Ahmad, the professor's brother, came in the office. His shocked face indicated that the professor didn't tell him about my arrival. His expression shows that he is angry; he is resentful but doesn't speak a word and acts as if he didn't see me as he welcomes the other student, Camila.

"Thank you all very much. Mr Umu-"

"Please call me Mehmet. And may I call you Wahaj and Camila?"

I agree while Camila mumbles her agreement.

"Mehmet, I was wondering if I could have about an hour of your time - for a quick discussion?"

"That should be no problem. I was just about to step out for lunch. Would you like to join me?"

He picks up his suit jacket, which was draped over the chair.

"That sounds perfect, thank you." I look up at Yilmaz, who's remained next to me.

"Professor, is it alright if Camila spends some time with the geneticist staff?"

Ibrahim nods slowly. "I have no problem with that."

"Thank you," I smile. "We'll talk later."

He doesn't answer right away, but when he does his voice is strangely soft, almost...wistful.

"Enjoy your lunch, Ms Muhammad."