Serious complications developed during delivery. The doctors warned us they might not save all three.
Mary gripped my fingers.
“The girls. Obviously the girls.”
I wanted to protest, to demand another option.
But she squeezed my hand again.
And I finally said, “Save the babies.”
By morning, Mary was dead.
I returned home with two newborn daughters and a bag of her belongings.
Her sweatshirt remained inside. I couldn’t wash it or even bring myself to remove it.
Everyone encouraged me to stay strong.
So I prepared bottles, recorded every feeding because exhaustion destroyed my memory, and checked the cribs repeatedly to make sure the girls were breathing.
My sister brought meals that mostly went untouched.
I lost weight. Sleep became impossible.
Whenever the house fell silent, I heard my own voice.
Save the babies.
Could I have answered differently?
Would Mary still be alive?
I knew she’d made the choice herself. Yet I couldn’t stop wondering whether I’d failed her.
