I told him everything.

The pregnancy.

The twins.

The C-section.

My recovery.

Trevor leaving.

The fact that I was struggling.

I expected anger.

I expected judgment.

Instead, he asked one question.

"What's your address?"

I gave it to him.

"Don't try to clean anything."

"What?"

"I'm coming."

"Frank, you don't have to—"

"I know."

Then he hung up.

Forty Minutes Later

I heard a knock.

My mother opened the door.

A man stood outside holding an ancient brown duffel bag.

He was older than I expected.

Gray hair.

Weathered face.

Tired eyes.

He looked at my mother.

Then past her.

His eyes landed on me.

Then on the babies.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Finally he said:

"You should not even be standing."

It was the first useful thing anyone had said to me all week.

My mother folded her arms.

"Who are you?"

"Frank."

Her expression hardened.

"I know who you are."

Frank nodded.

"I understand."

He didn't defend himself.

He didn't make excuses.

He didn't ask me to forgive him.

He simply stepped inside.

He put his bag against the wall.

Then looked around the house.

"What needs doing?"

I almost laughed.

Nobody had asked me that.

Everyone had been asking:

"How are you?"

"Are the babies okay?"

"Do you need anything?"

But "What needs doing?" was different.

So I told him.

"The bottles need sterilizing."

"Okay."

"The second bassinet isn't finished."