“No,” Richard said.
“What if they get mad?”
“Then adults learn.”
The boy studied him.
“Did your daughters call you Dad right away?”
“They called me many things first.”
The girls had begun with sounds.
Then Richard.
Then Daddy.
Then Dad.
Then, during adolescence, words he did not preserve in notebooks.
Family names grew through use.
They did not need to be forced.
PART THIRTEEN — RICHARD’S LAST NIGHT
Richard died in the house at eighty-one.
All nine daughters were present.
Rain struck the windows.
Not a violent storm.
A steady spring rain.
Violet played the lullaby Richard once hummed off-key while pacing between cribs.
Rose held one hand.
Anne held the other.
His breathing became slower.
Jasmine asked whether he was afraid.
Richard whispered, “Tired.”
Lily laughed softly.
“You’ve been tired since 1979.”
He smiled.
Then he looked toward Anne’s photograph above the fireplace.
The same photograph had watched him bring home nine babies.
“Did love have somewhere to go?” Holly asked.
Richard’s eyes moved across his daughters.
