I didn't send a picture. I couldn't put my Willa next to that ugliness, wanted to shield her forever from any kind of cruelty, especially anything that would make her connect her sense of herself to my reputation, to any reputation at all. People will believe whatever they want to believe, about themselves and others both. I think the key is teaching her to see it without making her feel responsible for it, but for that I need an entirely other version of myself.

They discharged us the next day, and I pushed Willa in her stroller across the street to meet Mom, too sick and weak now to leave her room. It hurt to walk. I was still in the mesh underwear, the supersized postpartum maxi-pad, but the sunlight was warm on my face, the world bathed in brightness. Even Mom had the blinds up, the sunshine glare through the windows obscuring the numbers on her monitors, illuminating the mysterious tubes that had been, for weeks now, working to make her death as comfortable as possible. I believe, even now, that Mom lived long enough to meet Willa out of the sheer strength of her will. Mom's love was never enough for me, not even at the end, but it was ever-present, which is something.

I elevated Mom's bed to get her into a sitting position. She had oxygen tubes in her nose and an IV in her left arm, but she still held Willa, snuggled her close, clucked and cooed like a mother hen.

“She's beautiful, Lottie,” Mom said, her tears flashing like silver in the sun.

“Her name is Willa,” I said. “Like Cather. These things happen when your grandmother is a librarian.”

Mom smiled then, a sincere smile, real happiness. The light hit Willa's face and she sneezed a delicate, tiny sneeze. Mom pulled my girl close to her chest so that her face was out of the sun.

“Goodness,” Mom said, smiling. “Bless you, little one.” She was almost singing, her voice so soft, so loving.