"She was so happy," her mother whispered.
"She was."
Her mother looked down.
"Before your wedding, Mary finally told me what that night had done to her."
"Did you apologize?"
"Of course."
"Did she forgive you?"
"She said she knew I loved her. She just wished she'd known it when she was little."
I sat.
"When she became pregnant, she brought it up again," her mother continued. "She said she couldn't bear the thought of her girls feeling unwanted if anything happened."
"What did you tell her?"
"I promised I'd be there. Whatever happened."
I looked at the envelope.
"And then you disappeared."
Her mother flinched.
"Yes."
Something stirred in my memory.
Mary in our bed, a few weeks before the birth.
One baby had kicked so hard I could see her stomach move.
I'd laughed.
Mary hadn't.
"If something happened to me, would you ever wish we'd never had them?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"Please. Just answer."
