“Do the boys know about this letter?” Sabrina asked.

“They know I tried to tell their father,” I said.

“They don’t need to see every painful detail tonight.”

“Agreed,” she said.

Tristan lowered himself into a chair and stared at the photographs.

“Four babies,” he whispered.

“I wasn’t there for any of it.”

I remembered the neonatal intensive care unit, the monitors, the tiny knitted hats, the way one child would finally settle just as another began crying.