The one she had prepared for, and dreaded, arrived on a bright October afternoon while they were carving pumpkins at the kitchen table.
Bridget looked up from her carefully triangular eyes and asked, “Why don’t we have a mommy like Lucy at school?”
The room went very quiet.
Margot stopped scooping pumpkin pulp. Theodore set down his spoon.
Children, Dorothy had learned, knew when the important truths were being approached. They fell still the way deer do before crossing roads.
Dorothy wiped her hands on a towel and sat down.
“You do have a mommy,” she said gently. “Her name was Colleen. She was my daughter. She loved you before you were born. She died the day you came into the world.”
Theodore’s lower lip trembled. “Because of us?”
“No.” Dorothy’s answer was immediate and firm. “Never because of you. She died because her body got hurt while bringing you here. And she would tell you herself, if she could, that you were wanted. All three of you. Very, very wanted.”
Margot frowned. “Then where is she?”
Dorothy looked toward the window where the late sun lit the garden Colleen had once planted and Dorothy had learned to keep alive.