“Let me drive you and the girls home,” he said.

“Please.”

“I’m staying with Romina.” “Adela, please.

You know the truth now.

I know the truth.

It was a terrible misunderstanding, but we can fix it.” I stopped and looked at the man I had married nine years ago, the father of my five children, the man who had held my hand through doctor’s appointments and birthday parties and a thousand ordinary evenings — and who had also left me alone in a hospital bed with a newborn because a birthmark was more persuasive to him than my whole character.