There were so many times on this trip to London when, hurrying to the theatre or staring into a glass of wine, I thought about telling my father. I imagined all the ways I could say it, working through words and phrases in my head, experimenting with different shades of certainty, different registers of cheerfulness. My father's imagined response was always the same: that's just wonderful, followed by a hug and maybe a kiss and then a quick shift of topic.
In the end, unfairly, I said nothing at all and I realized that what I was swallowing was something far too close to fury. I resented my father for all the things he hadn't done and couldn't say back in the days and weeks after the twins had come and gone. I told myself, with an unpleasant tinge of self-righteousness, that since he hadn't been able to share my sorrow, he shouldn't be able to share my happiness.
I wanted to forgive him. I wanted to forgive myself. But I didn't seem to be able to manage either one and, after a while, I stopped trying.