I missed things too.
“I’m not asking you to choose,” he said one night at the front door. “I’m
asking if there’s room.”
“There isn’t,” I said. “He’s not the guy you deserve.”
She nodded as if she already knew. He left a sweater. I never gave it back.
I kept the triplets, not because they asked me to, but because someone had to.
“I’m asking if there’s room.”
***
Daniel appeared as the weather does.
A birthday card once, with no return address.
A Christmas card with a stamp from somewhere that had never been.
When the girls were 12 years old, he called.
“I want to reconnect, Noah. I’ve been thinking.”
“Thinking about what, exactly?”
“On them and being a father.”
I held the phone so hard that my hand squeezed.
When the girls were 12 years old, he called.
“You want to be a father, get on a plane. You don’t think about it on my phone bill.”
My brother didn’t get on a plane. He never
did.
The letters stopped after that. Sometimes I wondered if the girls noticed. They never said.
***
