I looked at the sleeves.
They were stretched from years of Mary pulling them over her hands.
"I thought taking it out of the bag meant I was letting her go."
"No," she said. "It means the girls can know her."
That evening, I sat between the cribs.
I told the girls about their mother arguing over names.
About her terrible singing.
About how she'd laughed that morning when I couldn't find her water.
One daughter waved her fist.
The other watched my face.
"Your mother wanted you," I whispered. "Both of you."
I touched their hands.
"And I do too."
I still missed Mary.
Every day.
I always would.
But one day, when the girls asked why their mother wasn't here, I wouldn't tell them they'd cost me her life.
I'd tell them she loved them before she'd seen their faces.
I'd tell them about her laugh.
And I'd tell them that when she asked me to trust her, I did.
