"Of course not."
"Even if you missed me?"
I rolled toward her.
"I'd miss you every day. But I'd still love them every day."
Mary began crying.
I kissed her forehead.
Told her she was tired.
Told her everything would be fine.
I'd thought it was pregnancy nerves.
Now I understood.
"She asked me something," I told her mother.
I repeated the conversation.
Her mother stared at me.
"She asked you that?"
"Yes."
"And you told her you'd still want them?"
"Of course."
Her hand flew to her mouth.
"That's what I should have told her when she was eight."
I looked toward the hallway.
"She never told me why she asked."
"She was going to. After the girls came."
"Why wait?"
"She was ashamed that one unanswered question still frightened her."
"She didn't need to be ashamed with me."
"I know."
For the first time, I felt angry with Mary.
Not for choosing the girls.
For carrying that hurt alone when I'd been right beside her.
