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’m not going down there to start a fight,” I assured her.

“You have a long habit of trying to solve complicated problems by charging straight into them,” she pointed out gently.

“That sounds very familiar,” I said with a faint trace of irony.

“It certainly should,” she agreed quietly.

A brief, fragile smile passed between us, carrying a hint of the deep bond we had shared before the lawyers wrecked everything.

Then Sylvia’s face turned completely serious again.