That silence scared me more than anything else.
Diane reached out suddenly and pulled her baby closer, too fast, too protective. “Newborns can look alike,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s normal. People always say that.”
No one agreed.
Because everyone could see it.
This wasn’t “kind of similar.”
This was exact.
Like someone had copied one child and placed the second beside it.
The bathroom door at the end of the hall creaked open.
Richard stepped out.
His face was gray.
His eyes were wet.
And for the first time since I’d known him… he looked broken.
He walked slowly back toward us.
Every step felt heavy.
Deliberate.
Like a man walking toward something he could no longer avoid.
“Richard?” Diane’s voice cracked. “What is this? Why are you acting like this?”
He didn’t look at her.
He looked at me.
Then at Caleb.
Then at the two babies.
And when he spoke, his voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.
“It’s time,” he said. “It’s time we stop lying.”
