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.
“Whatever happened between your wealthy family and Sylvia, don’t walk into that room assuming you know the whole truth,” Florence cautioned.
“I don’t think I know anything at all anymore,” I admitted honestly.
“That might be the most honest thing you’ve said all night,” Florence remarked softly.
She pushed the door open and gestured for me to step into the dimly lit recovery room.
The room was quiet inside, lit only by a warm reading lamp mounted on the wall beside the high medical bed.
A row of heart monitors blinked softly in the corner, keeping a steady rhythm in the silence.
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