Susan nodded. “During labor.”
“One of the lenses came out.”
“Mark, put them in your bag.”
I can tell you what I personally remember.
I stared at her. “You remember that?”
“You kept asking for them.”
“I couldn’t see anyone without them.”
“I know.”
Susan folded her hands. “You were frightened. Mark was worse.”
You kept asking for your glasses.
“Why?”
She stared at me. “Because both babies were alive.”
I couldn’t breathe. “What did you say?”
“Both babies were born alive.”
I stared at her. “Then why did Mark tell me one died?”
You were frightened. Mark was worse.
Susan said nothing.
“He knew both were alive?”
“Yes.”
“And he let me believe my son was dead?”
“Rachel…”
Both babies were alive.
“For eighteen years?”
I couldn’t breathe.
“No.”
“Rachel…”
“No. One died.”
Susan’s eyes filled. “That isn’t what I remember.”
I couldn’t breathe.
