John held my hand so hard that my knuckles ached. Ava’s twin sister, Lily, sat in a waiting room chair with her shoes not quite reaching the floor, not fully understanding, and eating the crackers a nurse had given her.
And then, four days later, Ava was gone.
I don’t remember much after that. I remember IV fluids and a ceiling I stared at for what felt like weeks. I remember Debbie, John’s mother, whispering to someone in the hallway. I remember signing papers that were put in front of me.
I don’t know what they said. I remember John’s face, hollowed out in a way I’d never seen before and haven’t seen since.
Four days later, Ava was gone.
I never saw the casket lowered. I never held my daughter one last time after the machines went quiet. There is a wall in my memory where those days should be, and behind it, nothing.
Lily needed me to keep breathing, so I did.
Three years is a long time to keep breathing through.
I went back to work. I got Lily to preschool, gymnastics, and birthday parties. I cooked dinner, folded laundry, and smiled at the right moments.
From the outside, I probably looked fine. From the inside, it was like walking through every single day with a stone in my chest. I just got better at carrying it.
From the outside, I probably looked fine.
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