The television camera pulled back, and suddenly four five-year-old children were sitting beside the woman I had divorced because I believed she could never make me a father. Two had my hazel eyes, one had the deep dimple on my right cheek, and within minutes my mother admitted she had known the truth for years.
My name is Alex Vance.
I had come home early from a client meeting in Boston when Elena appeared on television.
Six years had passed since our divorce.
She looked different.
[Stronger.]
[Calmer.]
[Successful.]
The host was interviewing her about Little Nests, the childcare company she had built from nothing.
Then the children appeared.
Two boys.
Two girls.
“Five years and two months,” Elena said when the host asked their ages.
My phone slipped from my hand.
We had separated five years and eleven months earlier.
I did the math twice.
Then a third time.
It didn’t change.
Years before, Elena and I had spent nearly three painful years trying for a child.
Doctors told us her fertility numbers were poor.
They never said impossible.
But I heard impossible because fear was easier than patience.
My mother, Beatrice, made everything worse.
“A man needs an heir,” she told me. “You weren’t going to ruin your life for her.”
