“Stop the car!” she shouted.
I braked so hard the coffee in the cup holder jumped.
I eased the SUV onto the gravel shoulder.
She pointed.
“Look who it is.”
Up the road, a woman was walking the ditch line, bent against the weight of a plastic bag.
It rattled with every step.
Empty cans.
Then she turned her head, and the sun caught her face.
Emily.
My ex-wife.
The woman I had spent a year telling myself had betrayed me.
She looked nothing like the person I remembered.
Her jeans were worn white at the knees.
Her sneakers were taped at the toes.
The hair she used to wash with lavender shampoo was pulled into a rubber band, dull as straw.
In one hand she carried the bag of cans.
But that was not what stopped my breath.
Strapped to her chest, in two faded cloth carriers, were two babies.
