I adopted twin baby girls I found wrapped in towels in a beach changing stall—on their 18th birthday, they handed me those same towels and whispered, “Dad…

“You drove me to that beach.”

“Yes.”

“You knew I’d find them.”

He pressed his hands flat on the table.

“She knew you’d find them.

I just followed her instructions.”

“You let me believe my children were de@d.”

His jaw tightened.

“She was afraid you’d blame yourself.

She was afraid you’d spend your whole life thinking you failed them.

She wanted you to find them like they were a gift.

Not a debt.”

“They were my daughters.”

“I know that.”

“I raised them for eighteen years and I didn’t know they were mine.”

“I know that too.”

“Do you know what that did to me?

Every night?

Every birthday?

Every time I looked at them and wondered why they looked like her?”

Chris looked at the table.

“I watched you raise them, Tom.

I watched you give up everything.

I watched you love them more than most fathers love children they know are theirs.

I told myself that was enough.

I told myself Naomi was right.”

“She was right about one thing,” I said.

“I would have blamed myself.”

“And you would have destroyed yourself.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe.

I was there.

I saw you after she d*ed.