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“I need to ask you something,” Andi says. “And you can say no.”

“Okay.”

“Will you tell her about me? Not the sick part. Not the part where I left. Just . . . the parts that matter. Tell her I loved music—I played guitar, did I ever tell you that? Badly, but I played. Tell her I loved thunderstorms. Tell her I could never keep a plant alive, but I tried every spring. Tell her I wanted to be a veterinarian when I was little because I thought I could talk to animals.”

I’m crying now. I don’t even try to hide it.

“Tell her I made the best grilled cheese in the world. With three kinds of cheese and tomato. She’ll have to take my word for it.” Andi’s tears are falling too, but she’s still smiling, still holding Ella, still talking like she needs to get it all out before she can’t anymore.

“And tell her I loved her. From the second I knew she existed. Tell her that every decision I made—even the ones that looked wrong—was because I loved her too much to let anything bad happen to her. Even if that meant letting her go.”

“I’ll tell her,” I manage. “Every single thing. I promise.”

Andi nods. She lifts Ella up, both hands, arms shaking with the effort, and presses her face against her daughter’s hair. She breathes in—deep, long, like she’s trying to take the scent with her—and holds it.

“You smell like baby soap and trouble,” she whispers. “Just like your mama.”

I put my arm around Andi’s shoulders, and for a few minutes, the three of us just sit there. Andi holding Ella. Me holding Andi. The flowers trying their best. The afternoon light coming through the window in long, warm stripes across the bed.

Ella reaches up and pats Andi’s face with her palm—clumsy, gentle, the way babies touch things they’re curious about. Andi closes her eyes and leans into it.

“That’s my girl,” she murmurs.

After a while—I don’t know how long, it could be ten minutes or an hour—Andi’s arms start to tremble, and I gently take Ella back. Andi lets her go, and the release of it—the physical act of her arms opening, her fingers uncurling, her daughter being lifted away from her body—is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.

She doesn’t look away. She watches me settle Ella against my chest, watches Ella grab a fistful of my shirt, watches me smooth down her hair. And she smiles.

“She does that thing,” Andi says quietly. “The shirt-grabbing. She does that with me.”

“She does it with Alexei too. She’s a grabber.”

Andi laughs, and it turns into a cough, and I pour her water from the pitcher on the bedside table. She takes a sip and leans back against the pillows.

“I’m tired,” she says. Not an apology. Just a fact.

“We’ll go. Let you rest.”

She nods. Her eyes are already getting heavy, but she’s watching Ella—tracking her across the room as I pack up the diaper bag, slip the photo album onto the bedside table where she can see it, and check that her water is within reach.

“Ryleigh?”

I turn at the door.

Andi’s face is half in shadow, half in the afternoon light, and she looks so young. Twenty-three years old. That’s all she got.

“Be happy,” she says. “Don’t let the hard stuff eat the good stuff. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And Ryleigh?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell Alexei thanks. For the photos. For all of it.” A pause. “He’s one of the good ones.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely holding. “He really is.”

I close the door behind me quietly and stand in the hallway for a long moment, Ella warm against my chest, her fist gripping my collar. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. A nurse passes with a cart, smiles at Ella, and keeps moving.