What I remember is that the girl with my birthmark, the one I never once went to see, the one I almost wrote a check to make go away, has been walking around for twelve years carrying my wife’s name.

And my wife knew. The whole time. She named her.

I haven’t called the girl back. I keep telling myself I will.

The voicemail’s still on my phone too. I made Karen play it onto mine before she went to bed in the spare room.

Forty-one seconds. I’ve listened to it maybe sixty times now.

I still can’t get past the part where she says her name.