“Yes.”
“Did he know?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
That answer hurt her in a way I understood more than I wanted to.
Desmond spoke quickly.
“I knew about one pregnancy.
I did not know there were three children.”
Camille opened her eyes again.
“And that is supposed to make this better?”
“No.”
For once, he had enough sense not to defend himself.
Our son began squirming against me.
I set him down beside his sisters and reached for the strap of the diaper bag.
“I have a flight to catch.”
Desmond stepped toward me.
“Maya, please.”
I stopped.
Eighteen months earlier, I would have given anything to hear that word from him.
Please stay.
Please forgive me.
Please let me try.
Now it landed differently.
“What?” I asked.
His gaze dropped toward the children.
“I need to understand.”
“You already understand the important part.”
“I didn’t know there were three.”
“You knew there was one.”
The words struck exactly where I intended them to.
Camille looked at him again.
Desmond had no answer.
I pulled the handle of my suitcase upright.
Then he said something I did not expect.
“When did you find out?”
I knew what he meant.
“About the triplets?”
He nodded.
“Three weeks after you left.”
His face changed.
“Three weeks?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
I stared at him.
Camille did too.
The absurdity of the question hung between us.
Finally I said, “You had already told me what one baby was worth to you.”
Desmond looked as though I had slapped him.
I continued before he could interrupt.
“You did not say, ‘Call me if the pregnancy becomes more complicated.’ You did not say, ‘I’m scared, but I’ll try.’ You said, ‘Raise the baby however you want.
Don’t expect me to be involved.’ I believed you.”
His shoulders dropped.
“I was afraid.”
“So was I.”
“I handled it badly.”
“You left.”
