“Would it be all right if I came to see you?” I said.
“Not to make any decisions.
Just to meet you.
And Daniel, if he’s comfortable.
I’m not trying to insert myself into your life.
I just — I made a promise.
Even if I didn’t know I was making it.”
Diane was quiet for a moment.
“You’re pregnant,” she said suddenly.
“Mark mentioned — in one of his messages, early on, when he first found out he was sick.
He said his wife was pregnant.”
“Due in four weeks.”
“And you’re still doing this.”
“I’m trying to figure out what doing this even means,” I said.
“I don’t have a plan.
I just have a letter.”
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“Okay,” she said.
“Come on Saturday.
I’ll make coffee.
Daniel will probably show you every toy he owns within the first ten minutes, so prepare yourself.”
I felt something shift in my chest.
Not relief exactly.
Something quieter than that.
“Saturday,” I said.
“Thank you, Diane.”
After I hung up, I sat for a long time without moving.
Then Ruth knocked on the front door.
I could see her through the glass panel — her coat, her grey hair, the way she was holding herself very still the way people do when they’re not sure of their welcome.
I opened the door.
“I’m not ready to forgive you,” I said.
“But come in.”
She came in.
She didn’t say anything.
She sat down at the kitchen table and folded her hands and waited.
That was the right thing to do.
It didn’t fix anything.
But it was the right thing.
Josephine Ruth arrived three weeks later, at 4:47 in the morning, seven pounds and two ounces, with dark hair and a furious expression that made the midwife laugh.
I named her after my grandmother and Mark’s mother, in that order.
Ruth cried when I told her.
She was in the waiting room, and when the nurse brought her in she stood at the edge of the room with both hands pressed to her mouth and didn’t move for a long moment.
“Come meet her,” I said.
She came.
She held Josephine very carefully, like something she wasn’t sure she deserved.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, to the baby or to me or to both of us.
“I should have told you.”
“I know.”
“I was trying to protect him.”
“I know that too.”
She looked up.
“Are you going to be able to forgive me?”
I thought about it honestly.
“I think so.
Not yet.
But I think so.”
She nodded and looked back down at Josephine, who had gone to sleep with the absolute confidence of someone who had no idea how complicated the world she’d arrived in was.
