“He was very specific about the timing.”
I tore it open right there in the hallway.
Inside was a single folded letter — and underneath it, a photograph I had never seen before.
A woman.
A little boy.
Maybe four or five years old.
On the back of the photo, in Mark’s handwriting: *Take care of them.
Please.*
The floor felt like it was moving.
“Who are they?” I whispered.
The doctor looked down at his shoes.
“He asked me not to say anything beyond giving you the envelope.”
“Who are they?” My voice came out louder than I meant it to.
He swallowed hard.
“There’s a letter.
He wanted you to read it first.
Before anyone explains anything.”
I looked back at the photo.
The little boy had Mark’s eyes.
The same shape.
The same color.
My hand moved to my stomach without thinking.
Our daughter kicked once, hard.
