“Honey?” I say as I walk through the door. Another tough day at work, with the stock market down and my best accountant out sick. But everything will be okay in the long run. That’s the way stocks work, which we keep telling our clients, and it’s always been true, so far.

Play the long game. That’s what I do.

No answer, though, and no butler to greet me and take my coat. “Honey?” I say again. She must have gotten tied up doing something. A make-believe tea party or some such, and they’ve gotten the staff involved. That must be it.

I can hang my own coat up. It won’t hurt me. So I put it on a hanger, fish out my receipt from lunch, and tuck it where I keep everything for my expense account.

Quietly, I walk up to the condominium’s second floor. Perhaps I can sneak in and spook them at their tea party. Not too badly—I don’t want any spilled tea on the carpet, and then I’ll be persuaded to join. All the doors on the upstairs hallway stand open, except the spare bedroom, though, and… the maid sits on her haunches outside, shaking her head.

Oh no…

I rush to her side as I feel the blood drain from my face. “It’s okay,” I tell her. I don’t know what’s okay, but it will be. “Where’s Starched Collar?” I ask.

“Gone. Gone after…” Her lip trembles, and I just nod. I steel myself, open the door softly, and walk in.

Through the blinds, the setting sun leaves stripes across my wife’s mane as she sits with her back to me. The bed hasn’t been made. She must not have let the maid in here all day. And…

Oh no. She’s… gotten the crib out of the storage room. There it sits, near the window. Empty. Always empty. I run a hoof over my mouth.

“Cordial…” I say. She hunches over further and shudders. And clutches her forelegs across her stomach. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

After her second miscarriage, we… we put the crib away. I should have donated it, sold it, thrown it out… something. I should have. But she wouldn’t let me, just in case. And then once every two or three years, I find her like this. But it’s usually on one of the anniversaries of… those days. Today is different.

I can guess why. I put a hoof on her shoulder and try to wipe her tears away, but they don’t stop. If the maid hasn’t straightened the room, then Cordial must have stayed in here all day. Hours. But still, the tears don’t stop.

She wouldn’t consider adoption. It has to be family, blood relations. She’s stubborn like that. And then…

“I promised my sister!” she blurts out. “I promised her, Mosely!” She starts shaking again, and I just hold her. It’s all I can do. Another loss, as if two babies weren’t enough.

“And you kept your promise.” Maybe it’ll help. She already knows that, though. She’s not letting her sister down.

She nods, too hard, and sniffles. “I thought… we’d finally…”

Not an infant, but still a child. I thought it would have made Cordial feel worthy for once. Like she deserved to be a mother. “Did she say why?” I ask.

Cordial can only point toward the bedside table, where a scrap of paper sits. If only I’d found it first, I could have… No. It wouldn’t have made a difference. I walk over to it and read.

Dear Aunt and Uncle Orange,

I’m sorry, but I can’t change who I am. I thought I wanted this, but I miss home too much, and I realize that it’s the place I was meant to be. I really appreciate you allowing me to stay with you, and I hope I can visit sometime, but my heart really is on the farm. Please understand, and I’m sorry for the trouble I caused. I don’t at all regret the time I spent with you.

Love,
Applejack

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Pretty much what I’d figured. Poor Orange Cordial.

“We’ll see her at the next reunion. And we’ll keep sending the checks,” I tell her, for what good it does. Give her a couple weeks, and maybe she’ll feel better. “You’ve done your sister proud.”

She nods, too quickly again, and I hold her as she buries her face against my neck.