8 — THIS TIME, THE CHOICE WAS MINE
On February 20, I visited Tara’s apartment carrying a bag of maternity clothes.
Nick brought lunch.
Elaine carried Nora’s diaper bag.
Frank arrived with printed photographs of the babies.
Tara welcomed us inside.
Her son, Owen, was sleeping peacefully in his bassinet.
On the table sat the cardigan I’d lent her, freshly washed and neatly folded.
“I followed the washing instructions,” she said.
“Thank you.”
I placed my shopping bag on the sofa.
“These are for you.”
Tara looked surprised.
Inside were several
