Then, last Thursday, the doorbell rang.
Mary’s mother stood outside, trembling as she held an envelope.
I began apologizing immediately.
“I didn’t want to lose her. She asked me to, and I agreed. I should have done something.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t understand.”
She glanced at the envelope.
“Do you think I stayed away because I blame you?”
I couldn’t speak.
“Mary asked me not to tell you something. I promised her. I thought she’d have time to tell you herself.”
A baby cooed from the nursery.
Her grandmother looked toward the hallway.
“Can we sit down?”
We settled at the kitchen table, where Mary had once scattered papers covered with possible baby names.
Her mother kept the envelope on her lap.
“There’s something about Mary’s childhood you never knew.”
“I knew her for nine years.”
“I know.”
“She told me everything.”
