Rhett came after us across the grass.

I had known he would.

“Sabra.

Please.” His voice cracked on my name — my real one, finally, learned ten years too late.

“Don’t take them.

Let me — I’ll do anything.

I’ll give you all of it, the company, the house, whatever you want, just let me be their father.” I stopped, and I turned, and I kept my children moving toward the car with one hand while I answered him, because I did not want them to have to stand and watch me do it.

“I don’t want the company, Rhett.