No one noticed.
Or perhaps everyone pretended not to.
“Close.”
Hannah did not wake for six hours.
When she finally opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was silence.
The second was pain.
The third was that her stomach was empty.
Her hand flew toward her abdomen.
“No.”
A nurse rushed beside her.
“Hannah, don’t move.”
“My babies.”
“They’re alive.”
She froze.
The words seemed impossible.
“What?”
“Both babies are alive.”
Hannah’s face crumpled.
She turned away, pressing trembling fingers over her mouth.
The nurse softened.
“They’re in the neonatal intensive care unit. They’re premature, and they need support, but they made it through surgery.”
“My daughter?”
“Alive.”
“My son?”
“Alive.”
A sob tore from Hannah’s chest.
Not elegant.
Not quiet.
It was the sound of months of fear breaking open.
She cried until the monitor beside her accelerated.
The nurse squeezed her hand.
