A few days after my twins were born, my son hadn’t survived. That was the sentence I had carried inside me for ten years.
I was pregnant with a girl and a boy, and from the moment the doctor pointed to the screen and said, “There are two heartbeats,” my whole world changed. My husband, Daniel, cried right there in the examination room. I laughed through my own tears and squeezed his hand.
We named our daughter Susan and our son Clark before they were even born.
I bought two tiny blankets—one pale yellow, one soft blue. I placed them in the same drawer and imagined the day I would wrap both of my babies in them.
But labor started early.
Everything happened too fast.
There were bright lights, doctors shouting, Daniel’s terrified face above mine, and then darkness.
When I woke up, my body felt like it had been pulled apart and stitched back together. My throat was dry. My arms were empty.
Daniel was sitting beside me, holding our daughter.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered.
Susan was tiny, pink, and sleeping with one fist beside her cheek.
“And Clark?” I asked.
Daniel’s smile disappeared.
“He’s in intensive care,” he said carefully. “There were complications, but they’re doing everything they can.”
For three days, I lived between hope and fear.
My mother, Elaine, came to help. She fed me when I refused food. She brushed my hair when I didn’t have the strength to lift my arms. She whispered prayers under her breath while I stared at the hospital ceiling.
Then the doctor came in.
His face told me everything before his words did.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Clark was too weak. We did everything we could.”
I remember screaming.
