“Would you like to come inside?” she asked.
Julian turned toward her. “Evelyn—”
“I’m not inviting him to stay,” she said. “I only want to hear what he has to say.”
Julian studied her, then stepped aside.
I entered the house.
The first thing I noticed was how ordinary it was.
A small entryway. Children’s boots lined beside the radiator. A bowl filled with colorful hair
clips. Drawings taped to the wall. There was a wooden train set beneath the staircase and a framed photograph of Evelyn holding two newborn babies.
She was crying in the picture.
Not from sadness, I realized. From joy.
My eyes stayed on the photograph too long.
“They were born at Massachusetts General,” she said behind me. “A boy and a girl. Samuel arrived first. Lily came seven minutes later.”
My throat tightened.
“Are they mine?”
Evelyn’s expression became guarded.
“That’s what you came here to ask?”
“It’s the most important question I’ve ever asked.”
“No, Adrian. The most important question would have been asked two years and six months ago.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t want to know.”
