That was the hardest part.
I looked at her tiny face and immediately wondered what Mark would have said.
Would he have claimed she looked exactly like him?
Probably.
Would he have been terrified to hold her?
Absolutely.
Would he have cried?
I knew the answer to that one too.
Later, when the room was quieter and she was sleeping against me, I thought about the letter waiting at home.
For the first time, it did not feel like an object connected only to the day Mark died.
It felt like something that belonged to her too.
A few days after we came home, I carried our daughter into the nursery and sat in the chair where I had opened Mark’s envelope.
The same blanket was still over the crib.
The same unfinished traces of Mark’s work remained in the room.
But now there was a baby in my arms.
