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A presence leaned into her space, and Irene held out her hand. Gen took it, twining their fingers together, rising briefly on his toes to kiss her cheek before resting his chin on her shoulder. She squeezed his hand, both of them looking at the stone that marked where their lost child slept.
“Do you ever think about—” Irene asked.
“All the time,” Gen interrupted before she could finish, the line of his throat vibrating where it pressed into the back of her shoulder.
She hummed, squeezing his hand again, tilting her head to rest against his temple. “I know some women see all their losses as individuals, and others as just—empty bodies, soulless and unformed. Whatever helps them the most.”
“But you, my love?”
“I think,” Irene began speaking slowly and considering her words before she voiced them. “I think it was Eugenia. I think she didn’t want to arrive ahead of her brother. I think she didn’t want to be without him, so she cast off the shell and waited.”
Gen hummed and let go over hand to wrap his arm around her waist instead, drawing her closer to him. His presence became less suggestion and more real, a line of warmth against her right, a pillar to lean on. “And she’s here with us now.”
Irene nodded. “Mmm, she came when she was ready. It helps. It…doesn’t stop it from hurting.”
“No. It doesn’t.” A drop of wetness fell onto the fabric of her gown, barely felt. She leaned into his side harder, and he leaned back.