“Did you hold Claudia?”
“Ask him if he said goodbye to Claudia.”
He froze.
“Yes.”
I caught the back of a chair.
“How long?”
He wiped his face.
“Maybe 20 minutes.”
“How long?”
Twenty minutes: more time than I’d gotten.
“What did she look like?”
He started crying.
“What did our daughter look like?”
“Mel…”
“I don’t know her face, Robert.”
“What did she look like?”
His shoulders dropped.
“She had your mouth and the shape of your eyes.”
I pressed my fist against my lips.
He stepped toward me.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
“She had your mouth and the shape of your eyes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were still in surgery when they asked if I wanted to see her. It was too late, but they thought maybe…”
“And you said yes.”
“I couldn’t let her go without one of her parents holding her.”
The words hurt because I understood them.
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