At six, missing front teeth.
At ten, holding a science-fair ribbon.
At 14, wearing braces.
At 17, beside a little blue car.
Then older.
College graduation. A hospital badge. Christmas pictures.
I looked at Ben. “Who is she?”
He sat back.
“Her name is Lily.”
“Who is Lily?”
He stared at the photographs.
Then said, “My daughter.”
I don’t remember sitting down.
One second I was standing.
The next, I was on the wet carpet.
“You have a daughter.”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Twenty-three.”
I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
“Twenty-three.”
He nodded.
“You’ve had a daughter our entire marriage.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me.”
“No.”
I looked at the photographs.
This wasn’t somebody he’d just discovered.
This was a whole life.
“Who’s her mother?”
“Rebecca.”
“Did you cheat on me with her?”
“No. She was before you.”
“Then explain.”
When Ben was 18, he dated Rebecca during his first year of college.
