Patricia’s voice cracked.
“She was my daughter, and I couldn’t fix what you had done.”
“I know.”
“And you barely kept trying.”
“I called twice.”
“Exactly.”
I looked down.
“I thought continuing would make things worse.”
“You should have kept trying.”
She was right.
“I know.”
The four of us sat together in that maternity room with Rosalind between us.
A three-day-old baby who knew nothing about arguments, estrangements, pride, fear, or the strange ways adults sometimes make love unnecessarily complicated.
Finally Patricia asked,
“What happens now?”
I took a breath.
“Now I do better.”
She shook her head.
“You can’t just say that and expect—”
“I know.”
I stopped her gently.
“I don’t expect anything quickly. I know trust doesn’t come back because I apologize once.”
I looked at Emily.
“I’m only asking whether there’s a possibility.”
Emily stared at Rosalind.
Then she surprised me.
“I was going to call you.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Before I left the hospital.”
“Why?”
She smiled sadly.
“Because I’ve been lying here for three days looking at her and thinking about what kind of family I want her to have.”
She paused.
