Emma’s face tightened. “She didn’t want to come.”
Vanessa closed her eyes. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
Then she saw me.
“Mark.”
I hadn’t heard her say my name in twenty-one years. It sounded like a word in a language I used to speak.
“Why now?” I asked.
She looked at the girls. “Because I’m dying.”
“That’s why you sent the boxes. It’s not why you waited nine years.”
She nodded slowly. “No.”
“Then why?”
Her answer was barely louder than the machines.
“Because every year I waited made the next one harder.”
“That’s it?” Emma said.
“No.” Vanessa met her eyes. “The uglier truth is that I wanted to come back while I could still imagine you wanting me. When I found out about the letter, you were twelve. You had a father. Friends. A home. A whole life I hadn’t earned a place in.”
