Rebecca

When he was sure Mary was asleep, her breathing disturbed by a dream that drew a whispered stream of words he had no care to listen to, Richard grabbed a small case and went to the nursery. Rebecca was sleeping, curling her delicate fingers into tiny fists and looking so much like her mother that regret flooded up to his eyes. He silently prayed that she would not open hers or he was sure he would be lost.
Rebecca made no noise as he wrapped her in a blanket, folding sleeping arms across her chest and trying so hard not to linger on her sweet smell and the soft forgiveness of her skin. What possession he thought she might need: little dresses, frilly socks, pink cardigan with a tiny butterfly fluttering in suspended animation, shoes he would never see her wear, neatly packed away, he rolled her up into his chest and held her there. He tried not cry, but the will was too strong. She felt heavier than her three months on this earth would logically make her and for a moment she seemed like black matter sucking in the world around her and he had to steal himself not to lay her back in her cot. What he was doing needed to be done; that choice had been taken from him long ago when he traded in the misery of being childless for the conditional assistance of wealthy benefactor.