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.

I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and closed my eyes.

Four children.

Four.

And I had spent five years believing Elena had simply moved on with her life.

I had told myself she didn’t want me.

I had told myself she had probably found someone else.

I had even convinced myself that leaving her had been an act of mercy.

But she had been pregnant with my children.

And I had walked away because I thought she couldn’t give me any.

The worst part was that I remembered the night I left.

I remembered Elena standing in our kitchen.

Her eyes were red.

She had asked me to stay.

I had looked at her and said, “I don’t know if I can build the life I want with you.”

She had whispered, “You don’t even know what I’m carrying.”

I had assumed she meant emotional baggage.

Now I understood.

She had been trying to tell me.

And I hadn’t listened.

I drove to my mother’s house.

She opened the door and immediately knew why I was there.

“Alex…”

“How long?”

She looked away.

“How long did you know?”

“About the pregnancy?”

“About everything.”

She sat down slowly.

“I found out after you left.”