Rose had not been looking toward the camera. Her entire attention had been fixed on Claire with the same absorbed expression I wore during midnight feedings, when the house was silent and my daughter’s whole life seemed to rest against my shoulder.
Rose lowered her cup onto its saucer.
“Because babies need to be held, even when nobody has arrived yet.”
The answer softened the shape of my anger, though it did not erase it.
Richard unfolded the note again and carefully flattened it.
“Rose sang to her during procedures,” he recalled, his expression gentler. “She read beside the incubator. She celebrated every ounce Claire gained.”
At the time, Rose had also been caring for her terminally ill mother.
