“What?”
“Ethan stepping down first.”
I smiled.
“He always goes first.”
“He looked exactly like me.”
“He still does.”
“I thought I was hallucinating.”
“I could tell.”
“Then Lucas came out.”
I laughed.
“Your face got worse.”
“Then Noah.”
“Worse again.”
“And Miles.”
He shook his head.
“I remember thinking there cannot possibly be another child.”
“Quadruplets normally stop at four.”
He laughed.
Then became quiet.
“I lost eight years because I was too proud to look.”
I did not rescue him from that sentence.
He continued.
“For years, I blamed my attorney.”
“He did fail.”
“Yes.”
“But I told him you were manipulating me.”
“I told him not to forward emotional claims unless legally necessary.”
“I created the system that filtered you.”
“Then spent years pretending the filter proved I was right.”
I nodded.
“That’s true.”
He stared across the snow.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.”
