Dillon was still standing in the middle of the floor.
He looked at me with such naked, helpless pleading that, for half a second, I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“Shannon,” he said.
“Please.”
“They’re my daughters.”
“I just want to hold them.”
“I made a mistake.”
“A mistake.”
My voice shook, and I let it.
“A mistake is a wrong turn on the freeway, Dillon.”
“You made four of them.”
“You made them while I was sleeping in two-hour pieces and learning to feed a baby with one hand.”
“And you did not call.”
“And you did not ask.”
“And when I walked up to you with your daughters on my chest, you told me not to cause a scene.”
There was no sound at all in the terminal now.
I had been a quiet woman my whole life.
I turned, with the babies in my arms, to the woman in the white uniform with the four gold stripes.
