The room went silent.
I stared at him.
“What did you say?”
Patrick’s grin trembled.
Daniel closed his eyes, as if Patrick had finally made a mistake he could not repair.
Marlowe looked from Patrick to Daniel.
Marianne whispered, “Fifth?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
My voice sounded far away.
“No, I had four babies.”
Patrick laughed again, softer this time.
“That’s what they told you.”
The boys clung to me.
The officers dragged Patrick upright, but he kept looking at me, his expression gleeful and ruined.
“Four boys came home,” he said. “That doesn’t mean four were born.”
The hall tilted.
Daniel said nothing.
And somehow his silence was worse than denial.
Marlowe stepped closer to me.
“Kesha,” she said carefully, “did you ever request the full delivery file from the hospital?”
I tried to answer.
No sound came.
I remembered the delivery only in pieces. Bright lights. Too many voices. Daniel beside me in scrubs. A mask over my face. Someone saying baby A. Someone saying baby B. Then darkness. Pain. Waking up later to Daniel holding my hand, telling me there had been complications, telling me not to upset myself, telling me we had four sons and I needed to be grateful they were alive.
