He stared at me as if the answer were obvious.

“Claudia.”

My grip tightened around the jar.

Our daughter had died two weeks earlier.

For months, Willie had talked to my stomach. He’d even picked out a stuffed rabbit for her because, as he put it, “every little sister needs somebody to sleep next to.”

He had counted down the days until he could meet her.

Then the delivery went wrong.

I remembered that night only in flashes: Robert gripping my hand, Tracy leading Willie away, blood, glaring hospital lights, and a mask lowering over my face.

When I woke hours later, Robert sat beside me, both hands wrapped around mine.

His eyes were swollen from crying.

“Claudia?”