“Their names are Mason and Lucas,” Rosalind said softly.

“How old are they?” My heart was slamming against my ribs.

“They’re five,” she said.

Five.

I did the arithmetic in less than a second, the way you do arithmetic that is going to change your whole life — three weeks abroad, a cleared-out apartment, six years, five-year-old twins.

And I dropped to my knees on the cold marble floor of Terminal 2, right there in front of her, in front of the hurrying travelers, in front of everyone, because my legs had simply stopped being willing to hold me up.