“Accept,” he said.
“You should read the full terms.”
“I will. But accept.”
Peter paused.
“That may be the wisest thing you’ve said since this began.”
Mark almost smiled.
Almost.
That evening, he sat in the nursery and began writing letters.
Dear Grace,
I missed the first time you cried. I will regret that for the rest of my life. But I heard about it, and I imagine it was fierce.
Dear Lily,
Your mother says you make a face when you don’t like the bottle. I hope one day you make that face at me when I deserve it.
Dear Hope,
Your name is the bravest thing I know.
He wrote until his hand ached.
Weeks passed.
The girls grew stronger by ounces and milliliters, by small improvements that once would have seemed meaningless to him and now felt like miracles. Mark learned the language of premature infancy. He learned to ask about oxygen saturation, feeding schedules, weight gain, and corrected age. He learned to listen without making himself the center of the conversation.
