I’d once stood in the hallway holding a nine-month-old Shannon.
Adele, 13, stood barefoot on the stairs. Piper, eight, watched from nearby. The triplets — Penelope, Mia, and Lucille — were five, crying in the living room, confused about why their mother was filling suitcases.
Harry was the man Maya had run off with.
“Maya, slow down,” I had begged. “We can talk after the girls are asleep.”
“That’s all we ever do, Robert,” she snapped. “Talk. Count bills. Stretch groceries. And pretend this is enough.”
I pulled Shannon closer to my chest. “They are enough.”
Maya glanced 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 even took me to the Maldives, Robert. Do you understand the kind of life he gives me? The kind of life I deserve?”
