I tried to stay strong for her, but there were nights when I would find Anna alone in the kitchen, sitting on the floor with her hands resting gently on her stomach, softly speaking to a child we had not yet met.
So when she became pregnant again—and the doctor finally told us it was safe to hope—we allowed ourselves to believe in happiness once more.
Every small milestone felt like a miracle. The first kick. Her laughter as she balanced a bowl on her belly. Me reading stories aloud to our unborn child, as if they could already hear every word.
By the time her due date arrived, everyone around us was ready to celebrate. We had poured our entire hearts into this moment.
The delivery itself was overwhelming—voices calling out instructions, machines beeping, Anna crying out in pain. Before I could even process what was happening, she was taken away, leaving me alone in the hallway, pacing back and forth, praying for everything to be okay.
When I was finally allowed into the room, Anna lay trembling beneath the harsh hospital lights, clutching two tiny bundles tightly in her arms.
“Don’t look at them,” she cried, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face.
Her reaction terrified me. I begged her to explain, but she could barely form words.
Eventually, with trembling hands, she loosened her grip.
And I saw them.
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