Her mother looked up.
"I thought you hated yourself for saying yes."
I looked away.
"I did."
Then I faced her again.
"But why didn't you come?"
She wiped her face.
"I was afraid I'd look at those girls and wish Mary were here instead. I was ashamed of the thought. So I stayed away."
"The very thing Mary asked you not to do."
"I know."
I gripped the counter.
"Why come today?"
"Yesterday you sent a photograph."
Both girls on their blanket.
One smiling.
The other grabbing her sister's sleeve.
Underneath I'd written, "They've started smiling when I sing."
"I read that message," her mother said. "And I remembered how Mary used to sing when she was little."
She paused.
"Then I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd sung with her."
She'd opened the drawer containing Mary's letter.
Read it again.
Found two dresses she'd bought before the birth.
Still wrapped.
She'd driven to our house that morning and sat outside for nearly an hour.
