When she called me from the hospital, she was crying so hard I could barely understand her.
“Mom, they’re here. They’re both here.”
“And you’re all right?” I asked.
“I’m tired. I’m happy. I don’t know what I am.”
I laughed through my own tears.
For years, I’d watched her smile at other people’s baby showers, then come home and quietly put away the little gifts she’d bought for the children she still hoped to have.
Now she had two daughters, Ava and Sophie, sleeping beside her.
Our entire family was overjoyed.
It was the best thing that had happened to us.
My mother insisted she would live long enough to teach both girls how to make her famous apple pie.
She’d already knitted two tiny sweaters, although she’d accidentally made them in completely different sizes.
“They’ll grow,” she said when I pointed it out.
The next morning, while Emily was still at the hospital, a delivery van stopped outside my house.
