"But we have an 8:25 flight Wednesday morning," I protest. "That means we only have Tuesday to do the FRRO."
"When did you apply for the passports?" she asks.
"Two weeks ago."
She puts me on hold. "They're in the mail," she tells me. "Check back Monday morning."
Mail? Isn't that sort of thing supposed be be hand delivered in a black valise by a square-jawed man in a grey suit? Or maybe I just want it delivered to me personally by a square-jawed man in a grey suit.
The good news, of course, is that the DNA results arrived five days ago, and there's a 99.9 percent probability that I fathered the girls, as opposed to a random man off the street. Seriously, they put it that way. That's why I was told a week ago that the passports would arrive on Tuesday.
So now we wait, and in spite of us giving ourselves what we thought was plenty of time, we're down to the wire. Oh well. I'm told by several people at the embassy that the passports will arrive on Tuesday. Definitely.