Mark looked at me for another long moment. Then he reached across the table and took my hand.
“You’re crazy,” he said. “You know that?”
“I know.”
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”
I bought a card the next day. Pink, with a white rabbit on the front. I sat at the kitchen table while
Hannah was at school and wrote inside it.
I didn’t use my own handwriting. I practiced for an hour on scrap paper until I had something different. Rounder. Loopier. More like a young woman’s handwriting.
“Happy birthday, my sweet girl. I’m sorry this card is late. I think about you every single day. I hope you had the best day ever. You are so loved. Love always, Mom.”
And then, in the bottom corner, without even thinking about it, I drew a little flower.
A violet.
I’ve drawn violets my whole life. My mother taught me when I was little. She grew them in pots on every windowsill in our house, and she embroidered them on everything. Pillowcases. Dish towels.
