At first she tried to tell me that the boy was mine. We both knew I was sterile. “God has cured you,” she said through tears. I just stared at her. She tried again. “Our prayers have been answered!” “I haven’t been praying.” I replied, my voice cold. She sighed, wiped away her tears and explained what happened. The boy is not my child.
When the girl came she at least didn’t pretend. “This is how it is supposed to be.” I didn’t believe her but I nodded anyway. The girl is not my child.
Every year she begs me to take these pictures to celebrate another year of school beginning. A proud father; I play the role well. They are not even my children. Damn my Catholic faith! Damn it to hell! I should have divorced her for her adultery but the priest babbled on about a man’s duty as a husband and a Catholic. They are not even my children.