I had never once felt as alone as I did in that bright, clean maternity ward.
No one called.
No one came.
While I labored alone, my husband and his family were gathered inside the very house I had secretly saved, raising their glasses in Sabrina’s honor.
One of the nurses, a kind woman named Grace, squeezed my hand.
“Is someone on the way, honey?”
I forced a smile through the pain.
“I don’t think anyone is coming.”
Several exhausting hours later, my son, Theo, arrived first, announcing himself with a furious, healthy cry.
Minutes afterward, my daughter, Chloe, wrapped her tiny fingers around mine.
They were impossibly small, and impossibly mine.
Nurse Grace helped me hold them both at once, one in each arm, and for a moment the empty room didn’t matter at all.
Looking at the two of them, I made myself one promise.
My children would never have to wonder whether they were loved.
