I buried one of my twin daughters three years ago.
For three years, I’ve woken up with that truth pressing against my ribs before I even open my eyes. I’ve learned how to carry it quietly. How to breathe around it. How to smile when the world expects me to.
So when Lily’s first-grade teacher said, “Both of your girls are doing great today,” I didn’t just freeze.
I stopped breathing.
It started with a fever.