I frowned. “What letter?”
“I don’t know. But she was frightened when she saw it.”
My mother frightened was not an image I could easily imagine.
A soft cry broke the moment. Ellis had woken in the carrier, his tiny face scrunching with displeasure. Megan knelt, unfastened the straps, and lifted him with practiced care. Now both babies rested against her, small and warm and alive.
My sons.
I wanted to reach for them with a pain so physical it felt like thirst.
But I did not.
“May I see them?” I asked.
Megan’s arms tightened.
“Not hold them,” I said quickly. “Just see.”
Her eyes searched mine, perhaps looking for the old Rowan—the one who assumed permission came with wanting. After a moment, she turned slightly so the porch light fell across Ellis’s face.
He was astonishing.
Not because he looked like me, though he did. The blond hair. The shape of the brow. The small crease between his eyebrows as though he disapproved of the temperature.
