My husband had twins with my best friend. I signed the divorce papers without a word. Then he went to his mother’s house, and she went white and said, “She still hasn’t told you about that?”
For twelve years Corbin introduced Blythe Adair as “the sister my marriage got me.”
She held my hand in 2017 when I lost the first one at eleven weeks.
She was in the room in 2019 when I lost the second at sixteen, and she stayed at the house for four days afterward, and she made soup badly, and at about two in the morning on the second night she said:
“Maybe some women are just meant to be mothers a different way.”
I have thought about that sentence approximately eleven thousand times since April and I still do not know whether she meant it kindly at the time.
Corbin came through the front door just after midnight, smelling of hospital and of the cologne I buy him.
The photographs were on the dining table. He saw them from the doorway.
He did not attempt to deny it for one second, which I want on record, because everybody assumes there was a scene.
He said, “They’re mine.”
I said, “The twins.”
And he took his tie off, the way he does, like we were discussing a supplier, and he said:
