“I didn’t want her to be alone.”
“I know.”
I handed him another dish.
“Next time someone in my family needs someone to sit with them, tell me.”
“I will.”
“I want to become the person who shows up too.”
He looked at me.
“You already are.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I’m learning.”
And that became the thing I understood after everything happened.
Love is not simply something you feel.
It is something you repeatedly choose to do.
You show up.
Then you show up again.
Especially when it is uncomfortable.
Especially when you’ve made mistakes.
Especially when staying away would be easier.
David had understood that long before I did.
He had shown up for Emily because she needed someone.
Quietly.
Without praise.
Without making her pregnancy about himself.
He had simply been there.
And eventually, I learned to do the same.
Rosalind was eight days old when Emily invited me to visit again.
Me.
Not David.
Me.
I bought flowers.
Yellow ones.
The same kind David had brought to the hospital.
I planned to keep showing up.
Because Rosalind was going to grow up knowing her family.
All of it.
And I wanted her to know that people can make terrible mistakes without remaining permanently defined by them — provided they are willing to face what they did, change, and prove that change through what they do next.
When Emily first placed Rosalind into my arms in that hospital room, I told her,
“I’m your great-aunt.”
Then I whispered,
“I’m going to do better.”
Rosalind stared peacefully toward the ceiling, entirely unconcerned with the complicated adults surrounding her.
Then her tiny fingers curled around mine.
Hold on, I thought.
We’ll figure out the rest together.
