Eight years ago, my husband told me that one of our newborn twins had died. Last week, I walked into my son’s school office and met two almost identical children staring at me.
I started too soon. When I finally woke up two days later, there was only one crib next to my hospital bed.
A baby sleeping.
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I turned to my husband, Mark.
“Where is the other baby?”
She looked down.
“He didn’t make it.”
I was too weak to question it.
I didn’t attend any funeral.
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It’s not a small coffin.
I’ve never seen anyone.
Mark told me that he had taken care of everything while I was unconscious because he didn’t want him to suffer more than I had already suffered.
I believed him.
After that, I poured all the love I had on Cole.
He became a small, noisy, stubborn and funny child, able to make me laugh even on the days when sadness still caught me by surprise.
Mark changed after the birth.
He stayed quieter.
More careful.
