He knew who they were, his children after all, but he did not know their names. He knew he should know their names, Bartholomew, Enid, Galadriel? He wasn’t sure, and of the one name he knew for certain, Sophia, he wasn’t certain at all as to which child the name belonged. Even their exact number was a mystery, seven or eight or six or twelve, as well as their respective ages or even their birth order. Had they been born? Surely, but he had no recollection of the events, as many of them as there had to have been. But still, as they were his children, no doubt, he cared a great deal for them as best as he could at least with the pressing concerns of his work.