The first two were Claire and Rosalind.
“She named us,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Did she know we would be separated?”
“No. She believed it would only be for a few weeks.”
“Did she love Rosie too?”
“With everything she had.”
Rosie sat beside me holding baby Laura.
“Good,” she said. “I had two moms.”
I looked at Evelyn.
“So did I.”
It was the first time I called her my mother without qualification.
She cried for twenty minutes.
Rosie timed her.
A year after the hospital, Ben and Rosie renewed their vows at the lake cottage.
They said the first wedding had been beautiful, but too many guests had spent the evening whispering about whether Rosie understood marriage.
At the second ceremony, no one whispered.
Rosie wore a simple white dress. Her daughter slept against her chest in a lace carrier. Her son sat in Ben’s arms and tried to eat the boutonniere.
I stood beside Rosie.
Before the vows, she handed me the old fourth-grade photograph.
