I followed.
She grabbed her purse.
“Where are you going?”
“I need space.”
“Please don’t leave like this.”
She turned toward me.
“How exactly am I supposed to leave?”
I had no answer.
She spent the night at my sister’s house.
The next morning, David placed the wooden chest on our dining table.
I couldn’t stop staring at it.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”
He looked exhausted.
“Because you would have gotten rid of it.”
“I would not.”
He gave me a look.
“You dismantled Rosie’s crib before I came home from the funeral home.”
“That was different.”
“You made your mother remove the hospital photograph.”
“I couldn’t look at it.”
“Exactly.”
I sat down.
David ran his hand over the chest.
“I didn’t plan to keep it from you forever.”
“Eighteen years isn’t forever?”
“I kept thinking eventually you would be ready.”
I laughed softly.
“Apparently none of us was ever ready.”
I opened the box.
One of Rosie’s newborn hats sat near the top.
I touched it.
