"And I'm scared."
"Not of them."
"Of what grief can make people believe."
"He will love them."
"I know that."
"He doesn't know how much he's already healed in me."
"Someday I'll tell him."
"I know I'm probably worrying about nothing."
"But if something happens to me, he'll blame himself."
"He'll think there was something else he should have said or done."
"Please don't let the girls grow up thinking their mother was someone they cost him."
"Tell him I trusted him."
"Tell him I wanted them."
"And please, Mom."
"Don't disappear."
"You promised."
"I want my girls to know they were wanted."
"Always."
I read the letter twice.
Then I stopped at one sentence.
He doesn't know how much he's already healed in me.
For three months, I'd been replaying the worst moment of our marriage.
The moment I thought I'd failed her.
And all that time, Mary had been carrying a completely different memory.
A night in our bed.
