I flattened the letter.
“She told you not to disappear.”
“I know.”
“You promised her.”
“Yes.”
“And when I sent you pictures of her daughters, you wrote two words.”
“That’s all you had for them?”
She began crying.
I didn’t comfort her.
“I saw Mary every time I looked at them,” she said. “And all I could think was that she should be holding them.”
“They’re here.”
“I know.”
“Mary isn’t. But they are.”
“I know.”
“You knew what your silence did to her.”
She nodded.
“And you left us alone anyway.”
“Yes.”
I wanted her to defend herself, to give me an excuse to challenge.
Instead, she whispered, “Mary spent her childhood waiting for me to come back. And I’ve made her daughters wait for me, too.”
I walked to the sink.
Four bottles dried on a towel.
Mary had once teased me about becoming so organized during pregnancy.
Now I recorded feedings because some nights I couldn’t remember which daughter I’d just fed.
“I thought you hated me,” I said.
She looked up.
“I thought you hated yourself for saying yes.”
I turned away.
“I did.”
Then I faced her.
“But why didn’t you come?”
She wiped her cheeks.
“I was afraid I’d look at those girls and wish Mary were here instead. I was ashamed of the thought. So I stayed away.”
“The very thing Mary asked you not to do.”
“I know.”
I gripped the counter.
“Why come today?”
“Yesterday you sent a photograph.”
I’d photographed both girls on their blanket, one smiling while the other grabbed her sister’s sleeve.
Beneath it, I’d written, “They’ve started smiling when I sing.”
“I read that message,” her mother said. “And I remembered how Mary used to sing when she was little.”
