Because there’s a day coming years from now when my daughter is going to sit across from me and ask about the woman who gave birth to her.
She is going to want to know who Anna was.
She is going to ask whether
Anna wanted her.
Whether she loved her.
Whether she was afraid.
And I’m not going to have to soften anything.
I won’t have to invent a kinder version.
I will tell her exactly what happened.
That her mother was alone.
That she was dying.
That she was frightened.
That she had almost nothing left she could control.
And she did not use her last clear thought to ask for comfort.
