Support Local Charities
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.”
I sat beside him.
“She’s losing her son. I don’t think grief has rules.”
Psychology
“I know.”
“Then maybe she just needs time.”
Mark looked down at his trembling hands.
“She needs someone to be angry at.”
Then he looked at me.
“And I don’t want that person to become you.”
