“Good thing we decided to stop here, huh?” She sighs with contentment.

A kinder way of saying “I told you so.” We lie side by side, the bed humming beneath us for long minutes. When the vibrations stop, I am startled to feel more relaxed, the rigors of the long driving day eased from my muscles.

“What are you thinking about?” Molly asks.

The question catches me off guard. “You, I suppose. I’ve always liked doing new things with you, even little things.”

“Like Magic Fingers.”

“Exactly. Everything was new with you. That’s what was so much fun about raising a child. I’d be in the middle of doing something—whipping egg whites into meringue or riding my bike with no hands or graphing a parabola—and you’d think I was amazing. A magician or something.”

“You were amazing,” Molly says quietly, turning on her side and tucking her hand under her cheek.

I must be hearing things. I consider asking her to say that again, but I doubt she will repeat it. “Who will I amaze now that you’re leaving?”

Molly laughs. “Excuse me?”

“I’m losing my audience.”

“You should have had more kids,” she observes.

I hesitate, caught off guard by her words. Yet not off guard at all. It’s an opening to a difficult conversation. I know this before either of us speaks again.

“Mom?”

I turn to her. “I couldn’t have any more babies after…”

Her eyes widen. “After you had me?”

I gaze into her face, seeing maturity and wisdom there, trusting the compassion in her expression. When I first conceived of this cross-country adventure, I knew things would come up between us, difficult matters. And I knew this matter was the most difficult of all. Through the years, I had protected Molly from the most painful episode of my life. It wasn’t fair to reveal a wound she didn’t cause and couldn’t heal. What would be the point of that?

Things are different now. She’s a young woman. Another person’s pain won’t confuse or destroy her. Isn’t that, after all, the essence of maturity?

Deep breath, I tell myself, gazing into her doe-soft eyes. “I had a baby boy named Bruce.” Even after so much time has passed, I still feel the piercing loss. I was bleeding, drugged half out of my mind, but I can feel him even now, his slight, unmoving weight in my arms. Weeks premature, he was as pale and beautiful and silent as a fallen angel, having never drawn breath in this world.

Molly’s eyes instantly fill with tears. “Mom, really? What happened? When?”

Pulling in a deep breath, I explain in a shaky voice. “You were just two years old at the time. He came too early, and I was bleeding. There was a tear in my uterus.”

“Oh, Mom. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

I feel a tear slide over the bridge of my nose. Such an old, old wound, made fresh again by indelible memories. When it happened, it changed me in ways I am still discovering, even now. That kind of loss has the power to stop the world. My baby boy’s tiny, otherworldly face will always haunt me. He looked so very much like my other newborn, Molly. “It was just so sad, honey.”