he 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 9she had known3 the truth6 for years0.

Elena arranged for me to come to the house in the afternoon.

I sat in my car for nearly twenty minutes before knocking.

Elena opened the door.

“They’re in the living room.”

I nodded.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.

Then I walked inside.

Four children were sitting on the floor building something with wooden blocks.

They all looked up.

Four faces.

Four pairs of eyes.

And suddenly I understood why I had recognized them instantly on television.

Noah had my hazel eyes.

Ethan had the same dimple in his right cheek.

Sophia had my eyebrows.

Mia had the same little habit I had when she became nervous—pressing her lips together before speaking.

They were strangers.

And somehow they were the most familiar people I had ever seen.

Elena stood behind me.

“This is Alex.”

Noah looked at me.

“Is he your friend?”

Elena took a breath.

“No.”

The room became completely silent.

“He is your father.”

I expected confusion.

Instead, Mia dropped a wooden block.

Sophia stared at me.

Ethan frowned.

Noah asked, “Our father?”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

Noah looked at Elena.

“Like the father in the pictures?”

My heart stopped.

“What pictures?”

Elena looked uncomfortable.