Michael squeezed my hand so hard it hurt.
“Twins?”
“Twins.”
He cried.
I did too.
Noah and Nathan arrived eight weeks early.
For twenty-three days, we lived between hospital chairs, vending machines, alarms, tubes, whispered prayers, and the terrifying uncertainty of loving someone whose entire hand could wrap around one finger.
When we finally brought them home, Michael carried both infant seats into our tiny apartment and announced:
“Everything I do from now on is for them.”
I believed him.
For four years, he was a good father.
Not perfect.
But present.
He made dinosaur pancakes.
He read bedtime stories using ridiculous voices.
He taught the boys to say “investment portfolio” before they could pronounce “spaghetti.”
Then Hartley Adaptive Learning happened.
Michael convinced me to let him show portions of my research to a group of investors.
I was reluctant.
My dissertation was unfinished.
The model still had problems.
“Just preliminary conversations,” he promised.
That phrase would eventually cost me almost everything.
Around the same time, Rebecca Lane entered our lives.
She was a corporate attorney helping structure Michael’s new company.
Beautiful.
Confident.
Efficient.
She laughed at Michael’s jokes before he finished them.
I noticed.
Women always notice.
When I asked him about her, he kissed my forehead.
“You're exhausted.”
“That's not an answer.”
“She’s a lawyer.”
