Then I remember nothing.
When I woke up, I knew something was wrong before anyone said a word.
Daniel was sitting beside my bed with tears in his eyes. My mother stood near the window, dabbing at her face with a tissue. The moment I saw them, a knot formed in my stomach.
A doctor pulled a chair beside my bed and spoke in the soft, careful voice people use when they're about to shatter your world.
"I'm very sorry, Sarah."
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The words that followed changed my life.
One of my daughters hadn't survived.
For several seconds, I simply stared at him. The sentence made no sense. Just hours earlier, I had heard two strong heartbeats. I had spent months imagining two little girls growing up together, sharing birthdays, secrets, and adventures.
Now I was being told that one of them was gone.
I begged to see her.
The hospital refused.
