"I've never wished they weren't born. Not once."
"I believe you."
"But I wish she hadn't died."
"Of course you do."
I stared at her.
She was crying too.
"Those aren't the same wish," she said.
I thought about Mary's question in bed.
Even if you missed me?
I'd answered without hesitating.
I'd miss you every day.
But I'd still love them every day.
Mary had believed me.
Somewhere in the nursery, a baby began crying.
I went to her.
Her sister woke as I lifted her.
Of course.
I tucked one against each shoulder.
Their grandmother appeared in the doorway.
She watched me rock them.
"Mary would've laughed at this," I said.
"Why?"
"She said I couldn't hold a grocery bag without dropping something."
Her mother laughed.
A small sound.
"Could I hold one?"
I hesitated.
She lowered her eyes.
"I understand."
"These girls can't spend their lives waiting for you to be ready."
"I know."
"I won't tell them you'll come if you might disappear."
