Afterward, when Owen has gone back to his hotel, I walk into the nursery. Anna is sitting in the chair rocking Piper, who is still fussing. “Is it her teeth?” I ask. Anna nods. “Probably. She’s got one ready to poke through. I gave her some Motrin.” I cross the room, bend down near the rocking chair, and stroke the baby’s head. “Are you okay?” I ask. She nods. “You sure?” “Yes.” She seems fragile, like she might shatter into a million pieces at any moment. But she won’t; she’s tougher than that. “That was hard to hear,” I say. “Yes,” she says. “It took a lot of courage for him to come here.” I know Anna doesn’t blame Owen, and what I told him was true. We’ve gone down the “if-only” road and we decided a long time ago that there was no sense in dwelling on things we couldn’t change.
