Emily’s skin looked pale but warm. The baby’s wrist was narrow as a ribbon. Mark zoomed in until the image blurred.
He whispered, “Hi, Grace.”
There was no one there to hear him.
Two days later, Lily’s picture came.
Her cheek, half-hidden beneath a little knit cap.
Then Hope’s.
Hope’s photo arrived late at night.
She was asleep, her face turned slightly toward the camera, impossibly small beneath a soft white blanket. A thin tube rested near her nose. One fist was lifted beside her cheek as if she had been interrupted mid-dream.
Mark sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his youngest daughter.
Hope.
The child who had entered the world in silence.
The child Emily had named while he was absent.
He began to cry without making a sound.
The next morning, he boxed every gift Madison had ever given him.
