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 wore a simple navy coat.

Her hair was pulled back.

She looked older than the woman I remembered.

But her eyes were the same.

“I’m glad you came,” she said.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s probably the first honest thing you’ve said to me in years.”

I accepted that.

We walked into a small conference room.

She closed the door.

Then she looked at me.

“They’re yours.”

I felt the air leave my lungs.

“All four?”

She nodded.

“Two boys. Two girls.”

I swallowed.

“Names?”

Elena smiled faintly.

“The boys are Noah and Ethan.”

“And the girls?”

“Sophia and Mia.”

I repeated their names quietly.

Noah.

Ethan.

Sophia.

Mia.

Four names I should have known from the moment they were born.

“Why didn’t you come after me?”

“I did.”

She opened a drawer and pulled out a thick folder.

Letters.

Emails.

Medical records.

Legal documents.

Photographs.

There were dozens.

“I tried contacting you for almost a year.”

I stared at the folder.

“Why didn’t I see any of this?”

“Because every attempt went through your mother or your old attorney.”

I closed my eyes.

“After a while, I stopped.”

“Why?”

“Because the children were growing.”

She looked toward the window.