The Four Boys at the Restaurant Sink

I gave her the facts: that I had run into the woman I’d once loved, that she was raising four six-year-old boys, and that the boys were mine.

Genevieve listened without interrupting once.

“Four,” she said finally.

“Four.”

“Quadruplets.”

“Quadruplets.”

“You couldn’t ease into fatherhood, could you.”

Despite everything, I smiled.