PART 2
Her name was Rebecca Bennett.
At least, that was the name she had used at the funeral.
She had hugged me.
She had touched my stomach.
She had looked directly into my eyes and said:
“Mark talked about you all the time.”
Now I was holding a seventeen-year-old photograph of her standing beside
my husband with their newborn son.
I looked at Dr. Hayes.
“She was at the funeral.”
“I know.”
“You knew who she was?”
“Not until Mark told me.”
My hands began shaking.
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked down at Mark’s letter.
There were six handwritten pages.
I started reading.
PART 3
Emily,
If you are reading this, I ran out of time.
I need you to understand one thing before anything else.
I did not know about Noah.
Not when I married you.
Not when we tried for our daughter.
Not until six weeks ago.
