My ex-husband invited the former wife he believed was still childless and miserable to his family’s Christmas at their military estate. He never imagined I would arrive on a government tactical helicopter — with four eight-year-olds who had his face.

She watched four two-year-olds come out at the end of the day in a line holding a rope, the way they do it at that age.

With a woman called Rosemary, who collected them for me on Thursdays for about four years and who has no idea any of this happened.

And she did not get out of the car.

Because a woman had told her, in four words, on a telephone, never to contact us again — and Eudora Vail is from a world where you do not make somebody tell you twice.

She flew home that night on the last flight.

She has never mentioned it to her son. She has never mentioned it to her sister or to any of the four people she tells things to.

She mentioned it for the first time in her life to me, in a side room, on Christmas Day, sitting down, in about eleven sentences.
PART 5