Mary's mother stood on the porch.
An envelope shook between her hands.
I started apologizing before she stepped inside.
"I didn't want to lose her. She asked me to, and I agreed. I should have done something."
"I know."
"No. You don't understand."
She looked at the envelope.
"Do you think I stayed away because I blame you?"
I couldn't answer.
"Mary asked me not to tell you something. I promised her. I thought she'd have time to tell you herself."
Behind me, one of the girls cooed softly.
Her grandmother looked toward the hallway.
"Can we sit down?"
We sat at the kitchen table.
Mary had once covered it with scraps of paper, writing baby names and crossing them out.
Her mother kept the envelope in her lap.
"There's something about Mary's childhood you never knew."
"I knew her for nine years."
"I know."
"She told me everything."
Her mother looked at me.
"She didn't tell you what happened after her father died."
