Twenty-two years ago.
I remembered that year.
I’d been pregnant.
Or at least, I’d believed I was.
I had been 30.
We already had two boys.
We’d desperately wanted a girl.
At nine weeks, I had miscarried.
Or that’s what the doctors told me.
There had been bleeding.
Pain.
A hospital visit.
And then a doctor telling me there was no heartbeat.
I remembered Michael holding my hand.
I remembered crying for days.
I remembered burying the tiny blanket we’d bought.
What I didn’t remember was another baby.
“Michael,” I whispered, “what are you saying?”
He sat across from me.
“You didn’t miscarry.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“You delivered a baby.”
“No.”
“She was born alive.”
My entire body went numb.
I looked at Eleanor.
She was crying.
Michael continued.
“There was a medical emergency. You lost a lot of blood. You were unconscious.”
“What happened to her?”
He looked down.
“She was taken to another hospital.”
“Why?”
“Because they told me she had severe complications.”
I shook my head.
“I would remember.”
“You were unconscious for almost two days.”
“Where was she?”
Michael’s voice broke.
“I was told she died.”
I stared at him.
“Who told you?”
“The doctor.”
“What doctor?”
He gave me the name.
I didn’t recognize it.
But Eleanor did.
