« 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. »