I blinked hard to clear my vision, and went on writing, fast; I didn’t dare take time to choose my words, or I would never write them.
I remember everything about you, from the tiny line of golden down that zigged across your forehead when you were hours old to the bumpy toenail on the big toe you broke last year, when you had that fight with Jeremy and kicked the door of his pickup truck.
God, it breaks my heart to think it will stop now—that watching you, seeing all the tiny changes—I won’t know when you stop biting your nails, if you ever do—seeing you grow suddenly taller than I, and your face take its shape. I always will remember, Bree, I always will.
There’s probably no one else on earth, Bree, who knows what the back of your ears looked like when you were three years old. I used to sit beside you, reading “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish,” or “The Three Billy Goats Gruff,” and see those ears turn pink with happiness. Your skin was so clear and fragile, I thought a touch would leave fingerprints on you.
You look like Jamie, I told you. You have something from me, too, though—look at the picture of my mother, in the box, and the little black-and-white one of her mother and grandmother. You have that broad clear brow they have; so do I. I’ve seen a good many of the Frasers, too—I think you’ll age well, if you take care of your skin.
Take care of everything, Bree—oh, I wish—well, I have wished I could take care of you and protect you from everything all your life, but I can’t, whether I stay or go. Take care of yourself, though—for me.
The tears were puckering the paper now; I had to stop to blot them, lest they smear the ink beyond reading. I wiped my face, and resumed, slower now.
You should know, Bree—I don’t regret it. In spite of everything, I don’t regret it. You’ll know something now, of how lonely I was for so long, without Jamie. It doesn’t matter. If the price of that separation was your life, neither Jamie nor I can regret it—I know he wouldn’t mind my speaking for him.
Bree…you are my joy. You’re perfect, and wonderful—and I hear you saying now, in that tone of exasperation, “But of course you think that—you’re my mother!” Yes, that’s how I know.
Bree, you are worth everything—and more. I’ve done a great many things in my life so far, but the most important of them all was to love your father and you.
I blew my nose and reached for another fresh sheet of paper. That was the most important thing; I could never say all I felt, but this was the best I could do. What might I add, to be of aid in living well, in growing up and growing old? What had I learned, that I might pass on to her?
