A fever had become an infection, and three days later, Harold and I left the hospital without our daughter.
I packed away her clothes, removed her photographs, and refused to let anyone speak her name. Claire knew there had once been another child, but she had never known her sister’s name.
I forced myself to keep reading.
“A few months after Ruth died, I met a father outside the hospital. His daughter was sick, but he was afraid to seek help because of his immigration status. I paid for her medicine. Then I helped another family, and another.”
“I told myself I was doing it for Ruth. Later, I understood I was also doing it because I did not know what else to do with the grief.”
I looked at Elena.
