But from the moment Jonquil had been placed in his arms—all ten pounds and fourteen ounces of her, because she’d inherited some of the strapping Daugherty size, and God bless Meg for pushing her out—Jack felt something deep within him unclench. He had never known love like this.

And that happened again—Gwilim, born a little early and still small, and Amethyst, the perfect package, seven pounds and bright red fluff. He loved all three of his children so much that it filled the dead parts of him. They almost filled the portions of his heart that could never be satisfied with Meg.

But having kids wasn’t enough. Not to save a marriage that, perhaps, never should have happened in the first place.

“Dad,” Amy whined, tucked up under her covers, a few teeth still missing, and it shouldn’t have been so cute. “Pay attention!”

He rolled his tense shoulders. Get it together, Jack.

“Sorry, Ames. Where was I?”

“You were about to sing the song!”

Oh, great. His favorite part. He tried to avoid singing as much as possible, from Christmas carols to happy birthdays, and from the look on Amy’s face he was rather entertainingly bad at it. But he did it for her—of course he did. The curse of being a father: loving your kids and being the butt of every joke.

He didn’t really mind.

No one had ever read to him like this.

He made his operatic face, mouth wide open and chin quivering, and sang until Amy was almost crying with laughter. “Good enough?”

“Yeah, Dad.” Amy took a deep breath, then hiccupped and fell dramatically back onto the bed, the beads in her braided hair clacking. “Oh, no!”

Just like her mom. Jack remembered the first time he’d made her laugh so hard that she’d gotten the hiccups and kept hiccupping for hours.

It had been a very long time since that happened.

Jack held out the customary glass of water, placed on the nightstand for this specific purpose. “What am I going to do with you, Ames?”

She took a sip. “Love me forever, ’course.”

A classic routine, the answers long ago memorized.

“Oh, yes.” He pretended that he had forgotten, that her words were a revelation. “I suppose you must be right.”

“Just like always.”

“Just like always.” Jack leaned over and kissed her velvety forehead and pulled the covers up to her chin. “Night, Amy.”

Her eyes were already closing, interrupted only by a quiet hiccup or two. “Night-night, Daddy.”

At the door, he turned around and looked at his beautiful daughter, pink duvet tucked around her, and thought, how could I ever have doubted?

Loving his kids was easy.

He heard the clinking of dishes being washed downstairs.

Loving his wife—the right way—had proved too hard.