Margot had grown tall and expressive, with Colleen’s dark hair and Dorothy’s refusal to let nonsense pass uncontested. She was leaving for journalism school in the fall and already had the habit of taking notes during arguments.
Bridget had become quieter but stronger in her quiet, the sort of person professors would someday call formidable. She planned to study biomedical ethics, which Dorothy privately thought was the most Bridget answer imaginable.
Theodore, soft-hearted and broad-shouldered, had already been accepted into a veterinary program and still rescued creatures nobody else noticed—a limping sparrow, a stray cat, a boy in ninth grade who cried in a locker room and needed someone to pretend not to notice while staying beside him anyway.
They had all inherited something from Colleen, though none of it required blood to prove.
That evening, after the guests left and twilight softened the edges of everything, the triplets sat with Dorothy on the porch.
The cedar box rested on her lap.
They knew what it was. They had known for years. But tonight, at last, Dorothy opened it fully.