“Desmond,” she said quietly, “I need you to explain something to me. When you said you can’t take her home — did you mean you can’t take her home at all? Ever? Or did you mean something else, and you just said it wrong, in shock?”
He was quiet for a long moment, still holding his own head in both hands.
“I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “I looked at her, and for about three seconds, all I could see was Mom’s hospital bed. I said the first thing that came out of my mouth, and I don’t think it came out the way I actually meant it, but I also don’t fully know yet what I did mean by it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Renee. I’m sorry, Mara. I don’t think I’ve fully grieved Mom the way I thought I had, and apparently it took meeting my own daughter to find that out.”
PART 7
I sat there in that hospital bed, holding my niece against my chest, watching my twin brother fall apart in real time in a way I’d genuinely never once seen from him, not even during the actual week our mother died.
“You don’t get to just hand her back to me and walk away, Desmond,” I said, my own voice steadier than I expected it to come out. “Not because I don’t understand the fear. I do understand it, more than almost anyone else in this room could. She was my mother too. I sat in that same hospice room. But Nora isn’t Mom, and a birthmark isn’t a diagnosis, and you have exactly one chance to decide, right now, whether you’re going to let five-year-old grief make a decision for you that you’re going to regret for the rest of your life.”