Eight years ago, my husband told mI had gone into labor far too early. When I finally woke up two days later, there was only one bassinet beside my hospital bed.
One sleeping baby.
I turned toward my husband, Mark.
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“Where’s the other baby?”
He lowered his eyes.
“He didn’t make it.”
I was too weak to question him.
There was no funeral that I attended.
No tiny coffin.
No body I ever saw.
Mark told me he had handled everything while I was unconscious because he didn’t want me to suffer more than I already had.
I believed him.
After that, I poured every piece of love I had into Cole.
He grew into a loud, stubborn, funny little boy who could make me laugh even on the days when grief still caught me by surprise.
Mark changed after the birth.
He became quieter.
