“We’re having twins.”
I dropped to the floor of my apartment, laughing and crying at once.
All Rosie’s life, people had spoken about her future as though it belonged to everyone except her.
They had said she might never live independently.
Never marry.
Never build a family.
Now she was going to become a mother.
The pregnancy was carefully monitored from the beginning.
Rosie attended every appointment.
Ben read parenting books and assembled two cribs months before they were needed.
Yet complications developed.
Her blood pressure rose dangerously.
At thirty-four weeks, Ben called me from the hospital.
His voice shook.
“They’re taking her into surgery.”
I drove there so quickly that I barely remembered the roads.
The waiting room clock passed midnight.
My parents had not yet arrived.
Ben sat beside me with one knee bouncing uncontrollably.
“She’s going to be okay,” I whispered.
I was speaking to both of us.
