Seven months after our divorce, I rushed into St. Jude’s Children’s and Women’s Hospital, still angry at my ex-wife, only to learn that she had just given birth to twin boys, and both of them were mine. Before the night was over, a nurse would place a brass key in my hand and tell me to use it before my own family arrived. And what was waiting for me beyond that was even more shocking.
“I know you’re not,” I acknowledged.
“Then what exactly are you asking me for right now?” she asked, searching my eyes.
I walked over to the bassinets and looked down at my sleeping sons.
“I’m asking you to tell me exactly what I need to do next,” I answered honestly.
Sylvia’s breath caught slightly as the weight of my question settled over her.
“You need to go straight to the Laurel Street estate,” she instructed softly.
“Tonight?” I asked, wanting to be clear.
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