Adele was 13, barefoot on the stairs. Piper was eight. The triplets — Penelope, Mia, and Lucille — were five, crying in the living room because they didn’t understand why their mother was packing suitcases.
Harry was the man Maya left with.
“Maya, slow down,” I’d begged. “We can talk after the girls are asleep.”
“That’s all we ever do, Robert,” she snapped. “Talk. Count bills. Stretch groceries. Pretend this is enough.”
I shifted Shannon higher against my chest. “They are enough.”
Maya looked at our baby, then at me.
“For you, maybe.”
“You can’t just walk out on six children.”
“They are enough.”
Her eyes flashed. “You can’t give me the life I want. But Harry can. He bought me a brand-new car and took me to the Maldives, Robert. Do you understand what kind of life he gives me? The kind of life I deserve?”
“Maya,” I whispered. “Our daughter can hear you.”
