Chapter 27
Chapter 27
On the morning of June 19, Emma sat up in bed and wished it wasn’t time yet to face the day. It had been more than a month since she’d learned of Oliver’s passing, and her raw feelings of loss had not healed over. If anything, the wounds had grown deeper and become more open as she approached her due date and imagined the beauty of what could have been.
Since that dreadful day when she’d read his wife’s letter, Emma had put his ring back on the chain she wore around her neck with her mother’s locket. She’d also spent time reflecting upon her lack of trust in him and her harsh, unfair judgments. Soon, she came to realize that it had been easier to hate Oliver in ignorance than it was to grieve for his death. Easier to tell herself that she was better off without him.
Sliding her bare feet out of bed, to the floor, she tried—as she tried every morning—to be grateful for the brief time they’d had together. What was it they said about such things? It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
Maybe she’d believe it if she could feel happy again—about anything—but the euphoria she’d experienced in the rose garden seemed a million miles away, and unimaginable.
Suddenly, Emma found herself thinking about Abigail McKenna. Perhaps one day Emma would relate better to that poor woman’s moodiness and resentments after a lifetime spent with the lasting anguish of abandonment.
Fighting that dire thought, Emma rose from the edge of the bed, took two steps across the floor, and felt a great gush of water leave her body. Stunned, she stared vacantly at the puddle on the floor. Then she gathered her senses and called out to Ruth, who woke Matthew, got him dressed, and drove them all to the hospital.
By the time they arrived, Emma’s labor pains had progressed to two minutes apart, and all she could think about was Matthew’s grueling birth, and the hours of terror and exhaustion. She couldn’t do it again—she couldn’t!—yet all she wanted to do was push.
After that, everything was a blur, and by 9:22 a.m., she had given birth to a healthy baby girl, eight pounds, nine ounces.
When the nurse placed the sleeping infant in Emma’s waiting arms, she gazed down at her daughter’s sweet, angelic face and marveled at the vastness of love that flooded into her heart. Its beauty was immense, extraordinary, comparable only to what it must be like to enter heaven.
Hugging her baby close, Emma wept with equal parts joy and sorrow, and cried for at least an hour, until she was dry of tears.
“You’re so beautiful,” she blubbered as she kissed her daughter’s soft, warm forehead. “I’m going to call you Rose.”
Her darling baby Rose had a full head of soft black hair, just like Oliver’s. Blue eyes too, like his.
“And I’m going to love you forever,” she whispered tenderly in Rose’s ear, and Rose rooted toward her breast.
Ruth turned out to be correct. Rose had entered the world and brought a whole new bottomless batch of love with her. Though Emma still grieved for Oliver, she also felt reborn, jubilant, and enormously infatuated. She spent each day tending joyfully to Rose’s needs—changing her, feeding her, singing to her.
In addition, having read widely about early childhood development, Emma knew the importance of not neglecting Matthew. She fostered his interactions with his baby sister and praised him for his attentiveness. Most of all, she encouraged him to be protective. She told him that Rose would always need her older brother.
There was one thing, however, that surprised Emma. Her love for Rose felt different from the love she’d felt for Matthew when he was born. It wasn’t any better or worse, just different. Perhaps because Rose was a girl? Or maybe there was something truly miraculous about her birth—as if God had known in advance what would happen to Oliver, and Rose had been a gift from heaven—a little piece of Oliver’s soul to remain with Emma forever and help reduce the potency of her grief.