“Can I see her?”
Emily looked up.
She studied me for several seconds.
I understood that she was deciding whether she trusted me enough to come closer.
Finally, she nodded.
“Yes.”
I moved toward the bed.
Rosalind was tiny.
Dark hair.
Olive-toned skin like Emily and Patricia.
Still carrying that almost indescribable look newborn babies have, as though their faces haven’t completely decided who they’re going to become yet.
“She’s beautiful.”
Emily said nothing.
I sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
“Emily.”
She looked at me.
“Aunt Catherine.”
Hearing her call me that almost broke me.
“I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
“What I said two years ago was wrong.”
She lowered her eyes.
I continued.
“Not badly worded. Not misunderstood. Not something I said because I was surprised. It was wrong. I acted as if my expectations about your life mattered more than your understanding of yourself.”
Emily remained silent.
“I knew afterward that I’d hurt you. I called twice, and when you didn’t respond, I told myself I should stop pushing.”
I swallowed.
“But I should have kept trying. Maybe not aggressively. Maybe not constantly. But I should have found some way to keep telling you that the door was open.”
Emily stared at Rosalind.
“I wasn’t ready.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t know if I would ever be ready.”
“I understand.”
She looked down at her daughter.
