But only one baby was placed in my arms.
The doctors told me the other didn’t survive. They spoke about complications, using clinical words that did nothing to explain the hollow space inside me.
I never even saw her face.
Michael, my husband, and I whispered her name anyway—Eliza. It felt like a secret we carried between us, a fragile memory of someone who had never been given the chance to live.
As time passed, grief reshaped our lives. Michael eventually left. Maybe he couldn’t handle my sorrow, or maybe he was struggling with his own.
After that, it was just Junie and me… and the quiet shadow of the daughter I believed I had lost.
