The next morning, I sent him a photo.
Evelyn had grabbed my finger in her sleep. Her whole hand barely wrapped around it. Her fingernails were so tiny and perfect, like little seashells. I took the picture carefully, making sure the light was good.
Under it, I wrote: Do you remember how much we wanted her?
I watched the screen. Delivered.
Then, an hour later: Read.
Nothing else. No reply. No dots. Nothing.
I called Diane. She didn’t answer either.
My mom answered on the first ring.
“Claire! Oh, honey! Your father and I were waiting to hear. Is she here? Is she okay? Are you okay?”
I opened my mouth to tell her, and all that came out was a sob.
“Claire? Claire, what’s wrong? What happened?”
“Mom,” I said. “Mom, I need you to come.”
My parents drove two hours in an hour and twenty minutes. My dad’s sciatica was acting up and he still drove the whole way. My mom walked into my hospital room with her coat half off and her eyes already red, and when she saw me holding Evelyn, she stopped in the doorway and pressed her hand to her chest.
