They suspected an inherited heart-rhythm disorder.
Carl and I had both been tested.
So had Lily.
I remembered all of that.
What I had forgotten was how much of it happened while we were drowning in grief.
My test had not shown the particular genetic marker the specialists were concerned about.
Lily’s initial evaluation had given us no reason to believe she was in immediate danger, though follow-up care had continued.
Carl’s result had not yet come back when he left.
Now I held the missing answer in my hands.
Carl carried the same genetic variation the doctors believed Emily had inherited.
I read his letter.
Then read the same paragraph again.
He wrote that when the doctor explained the result, he stopped hearing the medical language.
He heard only one thing:
Emily had inherited it from him.
There was a line in the report describing the genetic connection.
Beside it, Carl had written one word.
Mine.
Then circled it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I looked at Dad.
“You knew?”
“Not immediately.”
“You knew about the result?”
“Eventually.”
“How long after he left?”
Dad looked down.
“A few weeks after the funeral.”
My voice rose.
“And Carl told you?”
