I didn't leave the bedroom or eat a bite all day. Martha knocked a few times; I never answered.
"You can't have children."
He'd been trying to take it back, and the words still dragged me straight into the past. I'd heard "don't take it to heart" too many times to count. Gareth said it. My father said it. Even the guests who sat and watched me get torn apart said it. They all told me to let it go, like forgetting could unmake any of it.
By nightfall it was Lily knocking. "Mom? Will you open the door? I miss you."
I sat by the window and didn't move. But I couldn't get her eyes out of my head—the way she'd catch the hem of my clothes at night and whisper, "Mom, please don't leave me," so soft the wind could've carried it off. In the end I couldn't keep her shut out. I splashed cold wate
