Chapter 12: The Rest of the Sentence

"You were there," I said. "You were in the room when they were born."

"I was the only one there."

"You held my hand."

"I held your hand, and I held your sons, and I held your daughter."

Daphne took a step in.

"And you let me walk out of that hospital with nothing. Do you know what you gave me? A title. Godmother. One visit a month and a card."

"I gave you everything I had."

"You gave me a Christmas card and you kept him."

"I didn't keep Rafe. I left him."

"You left, and he sat in his study for a year," she said, and her voice rose.

"He sat there with his head in his hands. And who sat with him? Who made the soup?"

I held the shoebox against my chest.

"You cropped the photograph," I said.

"It was a hallway. It was an ordinary hug."

"You sent it to him."

"I sent him the truth in a way he could take it."

She laughed, short and bitter.

"You were never going to stay, Margot. You get scared and you run. I only helped you run faster."

"He didn't know it was three. You knew I was bringing him the ultrasound."

"Yes."

"You knew he'd ask. You knew what he'd ask. You made sure he got the photographs two days before."

"I made sure," she said, "that you'd both be honest."

"You cashed his mother's check with my name."

"You would have torn it up if you'd ever seen it. So I used it. I paid for your stroller, Margot. I paid for the first apartment deposit."

I felt sick.

The stroller. The deposit. The envelope she had slipped into my diaper bag that first winter.

"Don't tell your mother, it's just a little extra," she had said.

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