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.”
