“If something happened to me, would you ever wish we’d never had them?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Please. Just answer.”
“Of course not.”
“Even if you missed me?”
I’d turned toward her.
“I’d miss you every day. But I’d still love them every day.”
She began crying.
I kissed her forehead, told her she was exhausted, and promised everything would be fine.
I’d assumed pregnancy anxiety was responsible.
Now I understood.
“She asked me something,” I told her mother.
I described our conversation.
She stared at me.
“She asked you that?”
“Yes.”
“And you told her you’d still want them?”
“Of course.”
Her hand covered her mouth.
“That’s what I should have told her when she was eight.”
I looked toward the nursery.
“She never told me why she asked.”
“She was going to. After the girls came.”
“Why wait?”
“She was ashamed that one unanswered question still frightened her.”
“She didn’t need to be ashamed with me.”
“I know.”
For a moment, I felt angry with Mary.
Not for choosing our daughters, but for hiding that pain when I’d been beside her.
Then I remembered her tears.
Perhaps she’d tried to explain, and I’d been too busy reassuring her to listen.
Her mother slid the envelope toward me.
“She wrote this for me. She said I could show you if anything ever happened to her. I couldn’t bring myself to do it until now.”
“What was she afraid of?”
She pushed it closer.
“Read it.”
I unfolded the paper.
Mary’s familiar handwriting filled the page, including the tiny hearts she sometimes drew above letters.
I touched it gently before reading.
“Mom,”
“I know you loved me.”
“I know that now.”
“But when I was little, I thought you would have traded every day with me to have Dad back.”
