The bench near Colleen’s grave was dry in the afternoon sun. Daffodils had opened all along the fence line. Dorothy sat, broke the seal, and unfolded the letter.
Mom,
If you are reading this, then the babies are safe and you fought for them.
I know I should have told you sooner. About Grant. About the money. About the donor. I wasn’t ashamed of using donor sperm. I was ashamed of how small I had let my life become inside that marriage.
These babies are mine. I chose them. I carried them. I loved them before they had names.
I told them about you every night. I told them you make the best apple pie in New Jersey. I told them you cry at dog-food commercials and pretend you don’t. I told them that if anything happened to me, their grandmother would love them fiercely enough for two people.
Dorothy smiled through tears at that.
I need you to tell them about me, but not only the sad parts.
Tell them I loved gardening and bad reality television. Tell them I could never parallel park. Tell them I used too much purple in every art project from age nine onward. Tell them I wanted them every single day. Every appointment. Every shot. Every disappointment. Every second I kept wanting them.