May 30th, 1998 —

Today is my 39th birthday. I am fairly certain James forgot, but just this once, I suppose I will let it slide. This morning, I was released from the hospital, along with both of my babies. They're down for a nap right now, and I know I should try to get some rest, too, but I just want to sit here in their nursery and stare at them. They're in an unfamiliar place, and I don't want them to be scared when they wake.

They've already grown in the past two weeks, and while my movement is still somewhat limited as I heal, I've been spending a lot of time with them bonding as I feed them, or just laying in bed with them on my chest. They are the most precious beings I've ever seen, and every day, every hour, I fall more and more in love with them.

James is out running some errands now. I never thought the babies would change anything between us, but they have. Not Caroline or Cassidy, but I think more the circumstances of their birth. I feel like I can't talk to James anymore. He works a lot and is very eager to do things that require him to leave the house. I miss my husband, the man who would take care of me when I wasn't feeling well, bring me gifts for no reason, and just remind me every minute of every day how much he loved me.

I know I'm not helping the situation, and I know it's childish to feel this way, but after Nigel told me how quickly he made that decision in the hospital, I just can't look at him the same. Is it possible to be jealous of my husband for giving all of his attention to our daughters? That's how I feel. I need him—both for the babies and for myself. Instead, it's like he shut me out now that I've given him what he wanted.

I shouldn't say such things. I still love James. And I spend most of my days telling my girls how much their father and I love them. It's not a big deal—only when I'm sitting here by myself writing in my journal do I feel so alone.

Caroline lay awake in her crib, staring up at the stars on the ceiling of their nursery. Miranda laid her hand on the baby's stomach, gently soothing her and helping her to feel comfortable in the new bed.

Cassidy, too, was awake, and Miranda could tell that she was about to start screaming as her wide eyes searched the room.

"Come here, baby," she said sweetly as she picked up the baby and held her against her chest. She walked around the room a little bit, helping her to familiarize her surroundings, then walked over and checked back on Caroline, who was falling back asleep. She made her way to the rocking chair and carefully took a seat before unbuttoning her top and beginning to feed Cassidy.

"You are my little angel, baby. My miracle, my fighter. I love you so much, princess," she said, gently rocking the baby as she nursed.

Later that night, after they had bathed the babies and put them to sleep, Miranda joined James in the kitchen to straighten things up. James' sweatshirt was hanging on one of the kitchen chairs, and when Miranda went to pick it up, she paused. It smelled like Chanel Beige.

"James, were you walking through Bergdorfs in this ratty old sweatshirt?" she asked. "It reeks of freesia," she said with a chuckle.

"No, I—I mean, I must have had it on under my coat," he said.

"With all these mysterious shopping trips, I'd expect a present every week," she added with a smirk as she tossed the sweatshirt into the laundry basket.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She looked up at him and suddenly, she knew she had lost him. That was Chanel she was smelling, and it didn't come from walking through Bergdorfs. She wanted to ask him about her, what she was like, how everything fell apart, but asking meant learning things she wasn't quite ready to know.

"Well, I'm just going to take this laundry downstairs," she said after some time, turning away and reaching for the basket.

"No, let me," he said. "Please, I know you're supposed to be resting. It's enough that you have to climb up to the bedroom."

Miranda shrugged and let go of the basket, instead turning to walk up the staircase to her bedroom. As soon as she was inside, she shut the door and dialed Nigel's number.

"Hello?"

"Nigel," she said, sniffling. "It's James."

"What? Honey, did he say something?"

"There's someone else. He said 'I'm sorry.' It was the Chanel Beige. I can't—" her voice broke off as gut-wrenching sobs took over. She didn't care if James heard her all the way downstairs.

"Sweetie, I am so sorry. What can I do?"

"I don't know," she cried.

"I'll find a list of the best lawyers in New York. I'll setup consultations with all of them for you so that James can't use them. If you want to bring the girls here, we can make room. Or, I can come stay with you. Wait—did you kick him out?"

"I didn't say anything yet, but yes, I think I will. Oh Nige, how does this happen?"

"Don't think like that, sweetie. He's an asshole if he's willing to give you up like that. Look, you better go talk to him. Don't take that cheater back. Call me whenever you need. I love you."

"Thanks, Nigel. Love you, too."

Miranda hung up the phone and looked at herself in the mirror. She was still in shock. She took a deep breath and went to check on the girls, who were both sleeping soundly. By the time she returned to her room, James was in bed, watching television on a low volume. Miranda crawled into bed a few minutes later without saying a word. James turned off the TV, and they sat in silence for a while.

"Who is she?"

"It doesn't matter," he said.

"Why, James? What changed? I thought we were so good."

"We were. And then we were going to have the babies and we were still good. And then you got your promotion and I got mine, and…yeah."

"I would have tried, you know. Had I known you were unhappy," she said. "I would have tried to be better."

"Miranda, please. Let's not do this. We had something really great. We have to beautiful perfect daughters. We will forever be a part of each other's lives, so let's try not to hate each other," James said.

Miranda sniffled and buried her head in her pillow.

"Come here," he said, rubbing her back and coaxing her towards him. "I'm sorry, Miranda, but we'll work something out."

"I hate what you're doing to me," she cried, hitting her fists against his chest. "I want you to leave. I can't live with you anymore—not like this. This is the twins' first night home. And it's my birthday. And now it's the day we broke up."

"I know, and I'm sorry. We'll figure it out in the morning," he said.