You wanted the cute photographs of the twins on your desk at the office.

You wanted the warm glow of telling your friends you had beautiful twin daughters.

You wanted, in short, the identity of fatherhood, the version that costs nothing and earns admiration.

But the second the actual work of it began, the exhausting, unglamorous, three-in-the-morning work that no one applauds, you decided that part was beneath you, and you assigned it, all of it, to me.

You wanted the medal without the battle.