“There is no better way to say it.”
He closed his eyes.
“I panicked.”
“And when I told you I was pregnant?”
“I thought you sensed I was leaving and invented something that would force me to stay.”
“Four babies?”
“I never saw the four.”
“You could have.”
“Yes.”
That yes sounded different.
No defense.
Just yes.
I placed four birth certificates on the table.
Ethan Bennett.
Lucas Bennett.
Noah Bennett.
Miles Bennett.
Father listed:
Adrian Vale.
His fingers began shaking.
“You put me on them?”
“You were their father whether you believed it or not.”
Then came the photograph.
Four incubators.
Four tiny babies.
One exhausted mother between them.
Adrian stared.
“Which one?”
I pointed.
“Ethan.”
“Lucas.”
“Noah.”
“Miles.”
“How early?”
“Twenty-nine weeks.”
His expression changed.
“Were they okay?”
“Eventually.”
I told him enough.
Respiratory trouble.
Neurological monitoring.
Surgery.
Feeding problems.
Weeks of uncertainty.
He sat down.
“I should have been there.”
