My next memory was waking three days later, weak and disoriented. Adam sat beside the bed, holding my hand, and began crying when I opened my eyes.
“I’m sorry, Emily. One of the babies didn’t survive.” I stared at him, struggling to understand.
He said the doctors had done everything possible and that we needed to concentrate on our remaining son. I believed him, and we grieved together.
Over the following two days, Adam rarely left my side. He brought flowers, helped me sit up, and accepted the staff’s praise for being such an attentive husband.
When our baby was finally cleared to leave the NICU and stay in my room, a nurse named Ruth brought him in. She congratulated Adam before bending over the blanket.
“Keep smiling,” she whispered without meeting my eyes. “I’ve sent something to your phone.”
I looked down at my son, trying to hide my confusion. As Ruth settled him into my arms, she leaned closer.
“Wait until your husband leaves before you watch it. It concerns your other baby.”
