Three days after my twin sons were born, my husband brought twenty-two members of his family into a hospital room and offered me two hundred thousand dollars to sign away my marriage, my children, and my right to ever ask about their company's accounts. They expected me to cry. I read every page and signed all of them.

I was three days out of a cesarean and I had been upright for about eleven minutes when the door went.

Kelvin Memorial puts you in a wheelchair to leave, even if you can walk, and I was in one in the family room down the corridor because a nurse had told me there were people asking for me and had asked whether I wanted to see them.

I said yes. I want that in the record, because I did.

Caspian came in first.

Behind him was Marisol Quade in a cream dress, at eleven in the morning, in a maternity unit.

And then the rest of them. His mother. His father. Both sisters. Two aunts, three cousins, an uncle, and a woman I have never been able to place.

Twenty-two people. I counted afterward off the camera.

Nobody asked how I was. Nobody asked about the boys, who were four doors down with a nurse called Ottilie because the family room is not a place you take two three-day-olds.