“I think I should,” he said quietly, aware in that instant that the statement covered more than geography. “Naomi, we need to talk. The twins…”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears found the corners and hung there, indecisive. “I wrote you,” she said, voice thin. “Eight years ago. Not right away. Anyway. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” Ethan said. “I didn’t get a letter.” He heard how convenient that sounded and kept going anyway. “If I had, I—” He stopped, because he didn’t know what sentence came next. If he had known, would he have been a different man? If he had known, would he have made room for a life that didn’t fit into calendar blocks? The version of him back then had been all forward motion and zero peripheral vision.