By dawn, after hours of exhaustion and determination, my twins were born, and I named them Ethan Donovan and Grace Donovan while holding them close against my chest and willing myself not to cry in front of strangers.
Patrick arrived the following afternoon wearing an expensive cologne layered over the scent of catered herbs, and he avoided meeting my eyes as he placed a large manila envelope across the hospital tray table beside my untouched gelatin cup.
He did not congratulate me or reach toward the bassinets first, because instead he cleared his throat and said, “This is for the best,” as though he were negotiating a business contract rather than dismantling a family.
When I opened the envelope, I saw formal divorce papers drafted by a Boston attorney whose name I recognized from Savannah’s charity board.
“You are not capable of building anything stable,” Patrick muttered with quiet contempt. “You could not even save my parents’ house when it mattered, and Savannah accomplished what you never could.”
He glanced at the twins sleeping inches away and added coldly, “I intend to seek primary custody of one child because you clearly cannot manage both.”