And a dark thought took hold of me and would not let go: what became of my blood? What had happened to the two small shadows on that ultrasound?

Had they grown up in squalor?

Were they angry, broken teenagers by now, bitter at the father who had thrown them away?

I had always shoved the thought down under a mountain of stock portfolios.

Here, watching the pinnacle of the country’s brilliant youth prepare to take a stage, the void in my chest tore open.

The host welcomed the delegations, epic music filled the room, colored light swept the crowd, and I tried to rebuild the fortress of Roderick Wolcott, CEO, refusing to let ancient history unmake me in public.

I glanced at Delphine, who had mounted her phone on a small tripod and was livestreaming her own face to her followers, whispering about manifesting greatness, and I turned away in disgust and reached for my water.