I looked at her.
I wanted to tell her not to say that.
To wait until the doctors had another answer.
But she squeezed my hand again.
And I finally said, "Save the babies."
By morning, she was gone.
I came home with two daughters.
And a bag of Mary's belongings.
Her sweatshirt was inside.
I couldn't wash it.
Couldn't even take it out.
Everyone told me to stay strong.
So I warmed bottles.
Wrote down how much each girl drank.
Because I couldn't trust my memory.
I stood over their cribs, checking their breathing.
My sister brought food.
Days later, she threw most of it away.
My jeans stopped fitting.
Whenever the house went quiet, I heard myself agreeing.
"Save the babies."
What if I'd said something else?
What if Mary would still be here?
I knew she'd asked me to save them.
But knowing that didn't stop me from wondering if I'd failed her.
Then one Thursday, the doorbell rang.
