They walked out together. The heavy wooden door clicked shut, and just like that, a decade of my life was legally erased.
I sat utterly paralyzed for a long time. The analog clock on the wall ticked with agonizing slowness. Then, Grace began to fuss. A thin, uncertain, wavering cry.
I carefully swung my swollen legs off the edge of the bed. The simple movement sent a jagged bolt of agony ripping through my abdomen, but I pushed through it. Mothers are forced to learn how to compartmentalize physical pain with terrifying speed.
I lifted her. She weighed almost nothing. Her tiny, impossibly perfect fingers immediately wrapped around the rough edge of my hospital gown. In the adjoining bassinet, Emma stirred. I gritted my teeth against the burning in my stomach and scooped her up, too.
I stood there, swaying slightly, holding both of my daughters.
Daniel genuinely believed I would take a check and walk away from my own flesh and blood. The sheer arrogance of the assumption was almost comical.
I leaned down and kissed Emma’s warm forehead, inhaling the sweet, powdery scent of her skin. Then I kissed Grace. “Your daddy,” I whispered into the quiet room, “does not know me very well.”
I hobbled back to the bed, laid them down, and snatched my phone from the nightstand. There was exactly one person on this earth I trusted.
Janet Alvarez. A retired trauma nurse, and my fiercest friend since our college days.
She answered on the second ring. “Carolyn? Are your vitals okay?”
