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.

She was silent.

Then she said something I wasn’t prepared for.

“I loved you for a long time after you left.”

My chest tightened.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

She turned toward me.

“I loved you while I was pregnant. I loved you when the babies were born. I loved you when they started walking. I loved you when they asked why everyone else had a father and they didn’t.”

I looked down.

“But eventually,” she continued, “I realized loving you didn’t mean waiting for you.”

I couldn’t answer.

“I built a life.”

“I see that.”

“And I don’t want you destroying it because you suddenly feel guilty.”

“I’m not here because I feel guilty.”

“Then why are you here?”

I looked at her.

“Because they’re my children.”

She waited.

“And because I never stopped loving you.”

She closed her eyes.

“Alex…”

“I don’t expect anything.”

“Good.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

“Good.”

“I don’t expect us to get back together.”

She looked at me.

“Then what do you expect?”

I smiled sadly.

“Tomorrow.”

She frowned.

“What?”

“I expect tomorrow.”

She didn’t understand.

“I want to be there tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. I can’t change what I did six years ago.”