Then, last Thursday, the doorbell rang.
Mary’s mother stood outside, trembling as she held an envelope.
I began apologizing immediately.
“I didn’t want to lose her. She asked me to, and I agreed. I should have done something.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t understand.”
She glanced at the envelope.
“Do you think I stayed away because I blame you?”
I couldn’t speak.
“Mary asked me not to tell you something. I promised her. I thought she’d have time to tell you herself.”
A baby cooed from the nursery.
Her grandmother looked toward the hallway.
“Can we sit down?”
We settled at the kitchen table, where Mary had once scattered papers covered with possible baby names.
Her mother kept the envelope on her lap.
“There’s something about Mary’s childhood you never knew.”
“I knew her for nine years.”
“I know.”
“She told me everything.”
Her mother looked directly at me.
“She didn’t tell you what happened after her father died.”
I knew he’d suffered a heart attack when Mary was eight. She remembered the ambulance and her mother’s shoes beside the front door.
“After the funeral,” her mother said.
“I kept her fed. I got her to school. But I stopped being there.”
“What does that mean?”
“She had his eyes. Sometimes she’d smile, and I’d have to leave the room.”
I pictured Mary’s smile.
“Why?”
“Because I missed him so much I couldn’t stand it.”
Her thumb moved nervously over the envelope.
“One night she found me crying over his picture.”
Little Mary had climbed beside her on the sofa.
“Do you wish Daddy was here?”
“More than anything,” her mother answered.
Then Mary asked, “More than you want me?”
My chest tightened.
“What did you say?”
