He did. He just did, understanding what he was getting into. She's right. He doesn't want to do this, but she's right.

"Right before the divorce... we had a girl. Joanna." He remembers standing in the nursery, in full scrubs, holding his newborn daughter and watching the sun rise. "We shouldn't have. We were barely functioning as a couple. But she wanted a child so badly, and I did too."

When he'd arrived home from the hospital that day his world was re-arranged, they were already gone. There had been a lawyer waiting for him.

"Sometimes there are letters." There is a very small locked box he keeps under his bunk, halfway full of letters written in childish script. The last was sent over a year ago.
"I couldn't risk missing out on another life."