the park, he felt the first hard crack in that comforting belief.

One of the infants whimpered.

Lila did not wake.

Ethan stepped closer.

The diaper bag was frayed at the seams.

The babies were clean, but their blankets were thin and mismatched.

A tiny sock had a hole in the heel.

There was no stroller.

No second adult.

No sign that this was a temporary pause in an otherwise stable day.

Then he noticed one baby’s hand curled inward in the same odd way his own fingers did when he slept.

His stomach turned cold.

Patricia whispered, almost to herself, Oh God.

That was when Lila jerked awake.

For one panicked second she did not seem to recognize where she was.

Then her eyes swept over the three babies, counting, checking, touching.

Only after she was certain they were all there did she look up.

When she saw Ethan, shock emptied her face.

What are you doing here, she asked.

It was not the question Ethan expected, and because of that it made the moment even more unreal.

He heard himself ask the only thing that mattered.

Whose children are these?

Lila’s throat moved.

She did not answer.

One of the babies began to cry.

Acting on instinct he did not know he possessed, Ethan bent and lifted the child.

He had never held an infant in his life.

The baby should have screamed harder.

Instead he blinked up at Ethan, gave a small shudder, and settled against his chest.

Lila stared at them.

Patricia made a tiny, strangled sound.

Ethan looked down.

The baby had his chin.

His crease between the brows.

Even the strange little hand.

Are they mine, Ethan asked.

Lila closed her eyes, opened them again, and whispered that she had tried to tell him.

He felt the ground tilt beneath him.

He told her she had vanished.

Lila looked at him as if the word insulted the air between them.

Then she reached into the diaper bag and pulled out a bundle of envelopes bound together with a faded hospital bracelet.

Every envelope was addressed to Ethan.

Several had been returned unopened.

Some carried forwarding labels.

One had red ink stamped across it.

And on the top envelope, written in the neat, controlled handwriting Ethan had seen on birthday cards and school permission slips his entire childhood, were four words.

Do not give him this.

For a moment Ethan could not understand what he was looking at.

Then he did, and the park seemed to go silent around him.

Open it, Lila said.

Patricia stepped forward.

This is unnecessary.

No, Ethan said.

His voice was quiet, but it stopped her cold.

He slid the first letter from the envelope.

Inside was a sonogram photo and a handwritten note from Lila.

She had written that she was frightened.

She had written that there were three heartbeats.

She had written that she almost turned around three times on the way to his old apartment because part of her was terrified he would reject her and part of her still believed he would choose them if he knew.

A second slip of paper fell from the fold.

It was Patricia’s handwriting.

You will not destroy my son’s life with this.

The sentence was so cold Ethan had