She paused.
“Then I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sung with her.”
She’d retrieved Mary’s letter, reread it, and found two unopened dresses she’d purchased before the birth.
That morning, she’d driven to our house and remained outside nearly an hour.
“I almost left.”
“What stopped you?”
“I imagined them getting old enough to ask why Grandma never came.”
I glanced toward the nursery.
“And what would you have said?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing that wouldn’t have hurt them.”
Silence settled between us.
Then I admitted something I’d never told anyone.
“Sometimes I wish Mary were here so badly I feel guilty looking at the girls.”
She listened.
“I’ll be holding one, and I’ll think Mary should be doing this. She should be here for the first smiles. She should know which one hates a cold bottle.”
