“What kind of question is that?”
“Please. Just answer.”
“Of course not.”
“Even if you missed me?”
I’d turned toward her.
“I’d miss you every day. But I’d still love them every day.”
She began crying.
I kissed her forehead, told her she was exhausted, and promised everything would be fine.
I’d assumed pregnancy anxiety was responsible.
Now I understood.
“She asked me something,” I told her mother.
I described our conversation.
She stared at me.
“She asked you that?”
“Yes.”
“And you told her you’d still want them?”
“Of course.”
Her hand covered her mouth.
“That’s what I should have told her when she was eight.”
I looked toward the nursery.
“She never told me why she asked.”
“She was going to. After the girls came.”
“Why wait?”
“She was ashamed that one unanswered question still frightened her.”
“She didn’t need to be ashamed with me.”
