Our house had six voices louder than any television, and most nights I fell asleep to the sound of at least two of them arguing about whose turn it was in the shower.
I was thirty-four, the father of five boys, and the husband of a woman who had wanted a daughter since long before she wanted me.
“I just wanted one.”
“Five boys,” Claire said with a sigh one Sunday, folding a mountain of small striped socks. “This has to be your fault somehow.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.
Our oldest was ten, our youngest two, with three more boys in between.
“I just wanted one,” she said to me once, in the dark, after our fifth son was born. “One little girl on my side of the house.”
“I went through a difficult period.”
“We have a whole team.”
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