I held it for a long while before folding it beside the album.
No longer hidden away.
Before leaving, her mother noticed it.
“She wore that the day she went in,” she said.
I nodded.
“She bought it on our first trip together. It rained that weekend. She insisted the weather made everything romantic.”
Her mother smiled.
“She did that. Found something good in whatever went wrong.”
I examined the sleeves, stretched from Mary constantly pulling them over her hands.
“I thought taking it out of the bag meant I was letting her go.”
“No,” she said. “It means the girls can know her.”
That evening, I sat between the cribs.
I told our daughters about their mother debating names, her terrible singing, and her laughter when I couldn’t find her water that morning.
One baby waved her fist.
The other studied my face.
“Your mother wanted you,” I whispered. “Both of you.”
I touched their little hands.
“And I do too.”
I would always miss Mary.
But when our daughters eventually asked why she wasn’t there, I wouldn’t tell them they’d cost me her life.
I’d explain that she’d loved them before seeing their faces.
I’d tell them about her laughter.
And I’d tell them that when she asked me to trust her, I did.
I kissed their foreheads and switched off the light.
Tomorrow, they’d wake hungry.
Their grandmother would return.
And together, we’d keep telling them about Mary.
