Susan wiped her face.
“How could I tell you I’d given away a daughter when you wanted a child so badly?”
I stared at her.
“You thought I’d hate
you?”
“I thought you’d think I hadn’t appreciated what you would have given anything to have.”
My voice cracked.
“Susan, you were seventeen.”
She began crying.
“I know that now.”
I shook my head.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“You should have let me be there for you.”
“I know.”
And suddenly we were both crying.
At eleven,
there was a knock at the hotel room door.
Susan froze.
I stood.
“Do you want me to answer it?”
She nodded.
I opened the door.
A woman stood in the hallway holding a small bouquet of white daisies.
She had dark brown hair, kind eyes, and a nervous smile.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Emily.”
Behind me, Susan made a small sound.
