Her grandmother froze.
“Mary used to do that,” she whispered.
Her eyes filled, and she glanced toward the doorway.
I recognized the impulse to escape before grief overwhelmed her.
Then the baby made an impatient noise.
She looked down.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
Wiping her tears, she continued feeding her.
This time, she stayed.
A week later, she brought an old photo album.
There was Mary with missing front teeth, wearing a crooked birthday hat, and riding on her father’s shoulders.
Her mother touched that last picture.
“I couldn’t look at this for years.”
Then she explained how Mary had demanded another ride while her father pretended his legs were exhausted.
We laughed together.
I hadn’t expected laughter to feel possible again.
Later, I opened the hospital bag and removed Mary’s sweatshirt.
It still carried a faint trace of her soap.
I held it for a long while before folding it beside the album.
