But when she showed me a photograph of her two grown sons, I promised I’d show her pictures of Emily as a little girl.
That evening, I went back to Mom’s house. She was waiting at the kitchen table.
“I met her,” I said.
Mom pressed a hand to her chest. “How was she?”
“Nervous. Kind. She looks like me.”
Mom began to cry, but this time I sat beside her.
“I can’t pretend I’m fine with what you hid,” I told her. “And Claire has things she needs to say to you. But we don’t have to lose any more years.”
Two days later, after Emily was home and rested, I told her the truth. She listened with one sleeping baby in each arm, then asked whether her new aunt would like to visit.
When Claire arrived, she brought the second blanket.
Emily spread both over the backs of the babies’ bassinets, safely away from their sleeping spaces.
