The five babies in the cribs were Black. My husband looked at them once and shouted

To accept him.

To reject him.

To forgive.

Or to hold onto the past in a way that protected what we had built without him.

I looked at each of them, waiting, knowing that whatever happened next would change everything, not just for him, but for us as well.

And for the first time in thirty years, I understood that the truth I had chased for so long was only the beginning.

Not the end.

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