“I was with her every single day.”

“Yes,” Ruth said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“You were.”

“But Claire was on the third floor.”

“In the maternity ward.”

I stared at the wristband.

“Why?” I demanded.

“Why would Claire be delivering a baby on the day my sons were born?”

“Because she was carrying them, sir,” Ruth said.

The words seemed to hang in the air between us.

“Evelyn arranged it,” Ruth continued.

“She knew she was sick before she ever told you.”

“She received her terminal diagnosis three months before she shared it.”

I felt a sudden tightness in my chest.

“No,” I said.

“She wouldn’t hide something like that from me.”

“She did,” Ruth said.

“She wanted to protect you from the despair.”

“She knew that if you found out she was dying, you would give up on our dream of having children.”

“And she wanted you to have a family to live for after she was gone.”

I looked down at the pink plastic band.

“But how?” I asked.

“Evelyn couldn’t carry a child because of the treatments,” Ruth explained.