On the front was a watercolor cradle.
Inside, she had written:
We hope becoming a mother helps you understand everything we sacrificed.
Chloe read it twice.
Then she handed it to me.
There was no money inside.
No apology.
No question about whether June was healthy.
For a moment, I watched the old struggle cross my sister’s face.
The need to explain.
To answer correctly.
To make them understand.
“What do you want to do?”
I asked.
She looked toward the living room, where June slept against the quilt Mom had called ugly.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I don’t want to spend her nap writing to them.”
She took the card, placed it in a drawer, and went to sit beside her daughter.
I stood in the kitchen a little longer.
Then I started dinner.
On the first anniversary of Grandpa’s death, we planted a rosebush beside the porch.
