End of Story

by A.J. Finn

Ink sinks into stationery, indelible as a scar; email is breath on glass, an instant dissolve.

“I can’t have children.” She’s surprised herself; it’s more than she meant to say. But she’d like him to know. Or at least she doesn’t mind if he knows. “And that’s a little sad for me, because I—because there’s enough about me that I like that I’d want to give it to another person.

“‘A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world,’” he says. “‘It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.’” His hands shift in hers. “So sayeth Agatha Christie. And a woman as ferocious as that would make a wonderful mother.”

you’ll learn that the rumors are true: you’re only as happy as your least happy child.