I tried to stay strong for her, but sometimes I’d find Anna alone in the kitchen late at night, sitting on the floor with her hands resting on her stomach, whispering to a child we had not yet met.
So when she finally became pregnant again—and the doctor told us it was safe to hope—we allowed ourselves to believe in happiness again.
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 like they could already hear us.
By the time the due date arrived, everyone around us was ready to celebrate. We had poured our entire hearts into this moment.
The delivery was overwhelming—voices shouting instructions, machines beeping, Anna crying in pain. Before I could fully process anything, she was taken away, and I was left alone in the hallway, pacing and praying.
When I was finally allowed into the room, Anna was trembling under the harsh hospital lights, clutching two tiny bundles tightly in her arms.
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