I slid into the seat across from him. Hope stirred beside me.
“Start talking.”
His eyes filled instantly. He had to look down.
“She wanted to come home so many times.”
I gripped the table. “Then why didn’t she?”
“Because of your husband,” he said quietly. “After she called him, she cried for hours. He told her if she came back with me, she’d be throwing her life away. He said if she loved you, she’d stay gone and let you move on.”
I closed my eyes.
Andy continued. “I told her maybe he was bluffing. She said he wasn’t.”
“What happened to my daughter, Andy?”
He broke then—just for a second. One hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking—before he pulled himself together.
“Hope was born three weeks ago,” he said. “Jennifer had a bleed after delivery. They said they stopped it. They said she was okay… but she wasn’t.”
I couldn’t feel my feet.
“Before she…” he swallowed, “before the end, she told me if anything ever happened, Hope was to come to you. She made me promise.”
Behind me, Hope made a soft, sleepy sound.
I reached back and touched her blanket.
When I looked at Andy again, he was watching me with a quiet, exhausted gratitude.
“What was she like?” I asked softly. “When she was with you?”
His face softened.
“She laughed with her whole face,” he said. “Like she couldn’t help it. She still talked about you—mostly when she was tired. Little things. ‘My mom hummed when she baked.’ ‘My mom could get any stain out.’ ‘My mom always knew when I was lying.’ She missed you all the time.”
“Why did you leave Hope?” I whispered. “Why not come to me yourself?”
He looked at the carrier.
“Because I hadn’t slept in four days. Because every time she cried, I heard Jennifer not breathing. Because I was scared I’d drop her, or fail her… or hate myself for not being enough.”
He rubbed his face.
“I rang your bell. I waited across the street until I saw you pick her up. I didn’t leave until then.”
