Even a glass of water.
She'd say she didn't want to bother them.
I'd always thought it was just Mary being Mary.
"She stopped bringing me his pictures," her mother said.
"Stopped asking about him. I thought she was getting better."
"She was trying not to upset you."
"Yes."
A cry came from the nursery. I stood automatically.
Her mother started to rise too.
"I've got her," I said.
I lifted the smaller twin.
She quieted when I put her against my chest.
Her sister slept with one fist beside her face.
I watched them for a moment.
They didn't know what had happened in that hospital.
One day they'd ask.
I was terrified of what I'd tell them.
I settled her back in her crib.
When I returned, Mary's mother was staring at a photograph on the refrigerator.
Mary was holding a pair of tiny shoes.
She'd been laughing because she'd bought them before we knew there were two babies.
