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.

“No, I don’t trust him at all,” I answered truthfully.

“Then why make him meet you?” she asked, puzzled.

“Because a person’s self-interest can be useful even when they have no integrity,” I explained calmly.

A faint, tired smile crossed her lips.

“That sounds a lot like something your father would say,” she noted softly.

“It sounds like something a man says when he refuses to be a victim any longer,” I corrected gently.

Nurse Florence looked up at the wall clock near the door.