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.

Eventually, I believed her.

One night, Elena asked me, “Do you want children, or do you want me?”

“I want both.”

“And if I can’t give you children?”

I said nothing.

That silence ended my marriage.

What I never knew was that three days later, Elena took a pregnancy test.

Positive.

She planned to tell me over dinner.

Instead, I came home carrying a suitcase.

I told her I needed space.

Four days later, I filed for divorce.

Now four children with my face were laughing beside her on national television.

I drove straight to her Back Bay office.

Elena refused to let me upstairs.

So I waited outside for three hours.

When she finally emerged, she looked at me without surprise.

“I saw you on television,” I said.

“I assumed you might.”

“Elena, are they mine?”

Her face hardened.

“You really don’t know?”

That question destroyed something inside me.

“I swear to you, I don’t.”

For the first time, uncertainty crossed her expression.

“I wrote you.”

My chest tightened.

“What?”

“When I found out there were four babies, I wrote you a letter. I sent medical records too.”

“I never received anything.”

She stared at me.