Nothing except the weight of four pounds, two ounces wrapped in a pink blanket resting in my arms as I said good-bye. One or two. What would Shannon want? One. She’d choose one. So I’d bury them together.
He was kneeling on the ground, about thirty feet in front of us. His head was bent and his eyes closed. His hands were pressed against his cheeks, his fingers straight as they steepled at the bridge of his nose.
“This isn’t all my fault,” Adam declared. “You weren’t the only one devastated by the doctor’s news. That was a game changer because I wanted kids too.”
The air in the camper was too thick, so I stepped into some tennis shoes, not bothering with socks, and rushed for the door. The minute I burst outside, my lungs filled with the May mountain air and my legs took off.