Benny and Ellie are sitting at the dining room table in the corner, whispering something to the floating heads.
Emma notices and shoots them a glare. I’d bet they’re failing at their kid-wrangling duties right now.
“So just to prepare you,” Emma whispers, “I did tell them you were in an accident.”
Her voice is soft but weighted, and the grimace that follows makes my stomach turn. I can’t imagine having to tell children their parents were in an accident—or worse, they might not recognize them. A faint déjà vu feeling flickers at the edge of my mind, trying to surface, but it’s too hazy to make sense.
“I didn’t know how else to handle it,” she continues. “They’re both too smart for their own good. They’d figure it out eventually.”
“Figure what out?” I whisper, momentarily distracted by the strange pull of memory. “Oh…that I don’t know who they are?”
The words hit her like a bullet. Her hand flies to her chest as if she can hold the pain there, and she squeezes her eyes shut. The sight of her trying to hold herself together physically hurts me. I wonder how often she does that, ignoring her need for a break, even just for a moment, so she can be strong for everyone else.
“May I?” I ask quietly,holding out an arm for a hug.
Her eyes follow the motion, traveling up my arm and lingering on my bicep, before she blinks up at me and nods.
The hug is painfully awkward. The worst hug I’ve ever given someone in my life. I’ve apparently made love to this woman, created a life with her, and yet I can’t hug her like a normal person?
“Thanks.” She sniffs, wiping her face before leading me toward the living room.
Benny greets us, creating a wall between us and the couch. I see four small legs swinging and fidgeting against the cream fabric. My pulse stutters. I glance at Emma, who can’t tear her eyes from the couch. Something heavy settles deep in my chest—the kind of weight that comes when youknowwhat’s about to happen will change you forever.
“Are you ready?” Benny whispers.
I take a breath and nod.
Then, everything slows.
Benny steps to the side, and there they are. Two boys, mirror images of each other. Mirror images of me. It’s like watching time fold in on itself. My breath catches. They’re beautiful. Their skin is lighter than mine but still carries my dark tone. Black curls crown their heads, exactly like mine at that age. But their eyes… Their eyes are Emma’s. Bright green, alive, and full of light.
My knees give out before I can stop them and I hit the floor.
“Steven!” Emma drops beside me.
I don’t take my eyes off the boys. I can’t. They sit frozen on the edge of the couch, white-knuckling the cushions as they hold themselves back.
“Daddy?” The one who ran across the yard earlier trembles, his small voice cracking with hope.
Benny lifts a hand, signaling them to wait, and they stiffen.
“Give him a second,” Emma murmurs.
“It’s alright,” I whisper, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. My nerves pull tight as caution starts to signal in mybrain. I don’t know how to do this, how to be this…but I hold my hands out anyway. “Come here.”
In one swift motion, they launch forward, colliding into me, and somehow it feels right. Like they were meant to be here, and I was meant to hold them, both of them. Tiny limbs tangle around me, hearts beating fast against mine, their laughter mixing with tears as they cling tighter. Processing this kind of situation must be impossible for a seven-year-old.
“Daddy, Daddy,” one hiccups into my shoulder, his voice small and trembling. “Can we finish our firetruck?”
“He doesn’t remember the firetruck, Sawyer,” the other, the one who raced across the yard, mutters. He pulls back from me, tears streaking his face as he studies me. “You don’t remember, do you?”
I don’t. I wish with every part of me that I did. This feeling, the feeling of letting them down, coils itself around my ribs. I sniffle, gazing into their misty eyes, praying for some inkling of memory to come from them. Nothing does, and my body deflates.
“Of course he remembers firetrucks,” Benny chimes in, his voice steady—and technically not lying. “Let’s go grab it, and you can show him how far you’ve gotten.”
Sawyer bolts for the stairs, but the other—Easton, I realize—hesitates. He watches me cautiously for a second, bright-green eyes pinning me to the spot, before following his brother. Emma told me about them in the hospital. Easton is two minutes older; Sawyer is taller. Sawyer prefers Spiderman, Easton likes Ironman. How Sawyer is like me, and Easton is like her. Now I see what she means.
Sawyer jumps in headfirst, needing tofeelsomething to understand it. That’s me—at least the me I remember. Easton, on the other hand, is careful. Him racing across the yard to me earlier wasn’t just to get to me, his dad; it was to find out for himself. He needs to see it to believe it.
