I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant with twin boys when one frightening afternoon changed everything.
My pregnancy had been mostly smooth until a sudden pain sent me to the hospital.

When I finally woke up, I was exhausted, confused, and surrounded by unfamiliar machines.

My husband, Mark, was sitting beside my bed holding my hand.

The moment he saw my eyes open, his expression crumpled.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

I tried to sit up.

“What happened?”

Mark looked down.

“There were complications with the twins.”

My heart started pounding.

“What complications?”

He squeezed my hand.

“One of the  babies is here with us. The other one… there were decisions the doctors had to make while you were unconscious.”

My mind was still foggy from medication.

“Where is he?”

Mark hesitated.

“You need to focus on recovering right now.”

That answer should have bothered me.

But I was too weak and overwhelmed to question him properly.

For the next two days, Mark stayed close.

He brought me flowers.

Helped me sit up.

Talked to nurses for me whenever I was too tired.

Everyone kept telling me how supportive he seemed.

And I believed them.

Then, on the morning my baby Martin was finally brought into my room, a nurse named Judy walked in.

She smiled at Mark.

“Congratulations.”

Then she gently placed Martin in my arms.

As she adjusted his blanket, she leaned toward me.

“Don’t react,” she whispered.

I froze.

“Just smile.”

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