Two circles.
Twins.
One engraved H.
One R.
Daniel started crying.
“Dad.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are visibly not fine.”
“I’ve been waiting twenty-three years to embarrass you at your wedding.”
She laughed.
Then they walked.
I sat in the front row.
For one terrible, beautiful second, my mind did what it had always done.
There should be two.
But this time I didn’t fight the thought.
I simply answered it.
Yes.
There should have been.
And there weren’t.
Both things could be true without diminishing the woman walking toward us.
After the ceremony, Hannah found me.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You counted two again?”
I stared at her.
“How do you know?”
“I’m your daughter.”
She took my hand.
“It’s okay, Mom.”
And for the first time, I believed her.
Last September 9th, Hannah came home carrying a baby.
Her daughter.
My granddaughter.
Her name is Sophie.
Not Rose.
I was secretly relieved.
Some names deserve to remain themselves.
We celebrated Hannah’s twenty-third birthday in the backyard.
Nothing extravagant.
Hamburgers.
Family.
A grocery-store cake.
Almost exactly like her eighteenth.
After dinner, Daniel stood.
“Oh no,” Hannah said.
Everyone laughed.
He disappeared into the garage.
Five years earlier, that would have terrified me.
