“Turn it off,” Margaret whispered.
I did.
Then I looked at her.
“I want Rosalie to know you. I want her to love you.”
Margaret began to cry in earnest.
“But you will never tell her I pushed her father into this. And you will never make her responsible for how much you miss him.”
“I don’t know who I am without him,” she said, barely audible.
“Neither do I, Margaret. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever lived through.”
I looked down at the small, sleeping face on my chest.
“But she doesn’t need us to have it figured out yet.”
Part Nine: Her Own
Six months later, Margaret sat cross-legged on my living-room rug while Rosalie wrestled a wooden block with the full force of her tiny body.
We weren’t fixed.
But we were healing.
Margaret called before she visited now.
She asked before she picked Rosalie up.
And when she missed Daniel, she simply said, “I miss him,” instead of hunting for someone to blame.
That afternoon, Rosalie clutched the block so tightly her little knuckles went white.
Margaret grinned.
“Would you look at that grip.”
I laughed.
“Just like Daniel’s.”
Margaret glanced at me.
Then back at Rosalie.
For a heartbeat, I saw the old instinct flicker across her face. The ache to find her son in everything, everywhere, all the time.
Then she shook her head.
“No.”
She touched Rosalie’s tiny fingers.
“That’s all hers.”
Rosalie shrieked with delight and flung the block straight into Margaret’s lap.
Margaret burst out laughing.
So did I.
And for the first time since Daniel died, neither of us needed Rosalie to prove he was still here.
We could miss him.
We could love him.
