What I had not been prepared for was what it would do to a crowd.

Because to me the resemblance was quiet, domestic, worn smooth by a decade of ordinary love.

But to the Remingtons standing in that cemetery — to the people who had built a whole decade on the fiction that these children were some other man’s, some stranger’s, some lie of mine — the sight of five small Garretts stepping out of an SUV was not quiet at all.

It was an earthquake.