“Verlaine,” the host said again.

Her name.

Not mine.

“What is this?” Delphine shrieked, on her feet now, her voice cutting across the applause so that heads turned.

“This is a mistake.

Where is Auberon’s name?” I didn’t hear her.

I watched my sons — my sons — climb the red-carpeted stairs in perfect step, radiating a natural confidence no prep-school money could ever manufacture.

I want to describe what it is to see your own face on two strangers who are also, somehow, the most complete strangers in the room to you — because I have never found adequate words for it, and I have tried.