I did not tell Brooklyn that I had spent hours bargaining with every beep.
I did not tell her that footsteps in the hall made my stomach twist because I expected someone to arrive with news I could not survive.
I did not tell her that I was afraid to close my eyes.
She leaned her cheek against my sleeve and studied Rosalie through the incubator wall.
“Can she hear us?”
“I think so.”
Brooklyn moved closer.
“Hi, Rosie,” she whispered. “I’m your big sister.”
The ventilator hissed.
The monitor beeped.
For a few seconds, the room felt almost gentle.
Then my phone buzzed three times against the blanket.
For one foolish second, I thought it was Kevin texting from the cafeteria, pretending everything was normal while buying another coffee he would forget to drink.
It was my mother.
The first message said, “Gender reveal is at 5 tomorrow.”
The second said, “Bring the chocolate mousse cake from Molina’s.”
