My hands stopped.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
I finished the last button, then smoothed his collar.
“I want to remember enough to tell Cecelia who you really were.”
Something changed in his face.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Then he reached out and closed his hand gently around my wrist.
“My mom brought up the donation again.”
I frowned.
Violet had always been good to me.
During the worst weeks of morning sickness, she had appeared at our door carrying groceries, crackers, ginger tea, and several pairs of tiny yellow baby socks.
“That child is not going to drown in pink,” she had announced.
“What did she say?” I asked.
“She doesn’t want me to donate.”
“She told you that?”
“More than once.”
“Why?”
He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed.
“She can’t stand the idea that parts of me might go to people she doesn’t know.”
