A woman.
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A little boy.
Maybe four or five years old.
On the back of the photo, in Mark’s handwriting: *Take care of them.
Please.*
The floor felt like it was moving.
“Who are they?” I whispered.
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The doctor looked down at his shoes.
“He asked me not to say anything beyond giving you the envelope.”
“Who are they?” My voice came out louder than I meant it to.
He swallowed hard.
“There’s a letter.
He wanted you to read it first.
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Before anyone explains anything.”
I looked back at the photo.
The little boy had Mark’s eyes.
The same shape.
The same color.
My hand moved to my stomach without thinking.
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Our daughter kicked once, hard.
I unfolded the letter.
The first line stopped me completely.
*By the time you read this, you’ll have already given someone a part of me.
