So I promised.
An hour later, she delivered two tiny, furious baby girls.
By morning, she was gone.
The doctors said it was complications. The word felt clinical and insufficient.
The babies were healthy. Lila was not.
Social services prepared paperwork. The twins would go into the system.
I went home that day and sat at my kitchen table for hours, staring at my hands. I could still feel the pressure of Lila’s fingers around my wrist.
Two weeks later, I filed for adoption.
It wasn’t noble. It wasn’t heroic. It was terrifying. I was single. I had student loans. I had a career that demanded long hours and steady nerves.
But I had made a promise.
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