Mark stared at the bills on the kitchen table. “With what money?”
I remembered a conversation with Mark.
“We’ll manage.”
“We’re eighteen, Rachel.”
“Nineteen for you.”
“That doesn’t make this better.”
I’d reached across the table and taken his hand. “We knew there were two babies.”
We’re going to need two of everything.
“I know.”
“And we’re keeping both.”
He looked at me for a long moment. “Yeah.”
“Mark?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
At the time, I’d believed him.
That doesn’t make this better.
***
Back in the hospital, I looked at Susan. “He was scared.”
Susan nodded. “Very.”
“But he never mentioned adoption to me. Not once.” My throat tightened. “Then I woke up after the delivery, and he told me one of them had died.”
But now that I was thinking about that night again, another memory surfaced.
Something Mark had said after I woke up – something I’d spent eighteen years mistaking for kindness.
We’re keeping both.
***
I’d been lying in bed without my glasses.
Mark was beside me, nothing but a blurry shape.
“Can I see him?”
Mark was nothing but a blurry shape beside my bed. “No.”
“Please. I need to say goodbye.”
He never mentioned adoption to me.
“Rachel, don’t do this to yourself.”
“I’m his mother.”
He kissed my forehead. “Remember him the way you imagined him.”
For eighteen years, I’d thought he was protecting me.
Now I understood why he hadn’t let me see my baby.
I need to say goodbye.
***
“He wouldn’t let me see the son he told me I’d lost.”
Susan looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“Did Mark give my son away?”
