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There are moments you never recover from. Moments that cut so deep, you feel them in everything you do.
For me, it happened six years ago, in a hospital room filled with the sound of beeping, shouted orders, and my own heartbeat in my ears. I went into labor with twins, Junie and Eliza.
Except… only one made it out alive.
They told me my baby didn’t make it. Complications, they said, as if that explained the empty space in my arms.
I never even got to see her.
There are moments you never recover from.
We named her Eliza in whispers, a name carried like a secret between my husband, Michael, and me.
But as the years dragged on, the grief changed us. Michael left, unable to live with my sadness, or maybe his own.
So it became just the two of us: me and Junie, and the invisible shadow of the daughter I’d never known.
***
The first day of first grade felt like a fresh start. Junie marched up the sidewalk, pigtails swinging, and I waved, praying she’d make friends.
I spent the day cleaning, trying to scrub off my nerves.
The grief changed us.
“Relax, Phoebe,” I said out loud. “June-bug’s going to be just fine.”
That afternoon, I barely had time to set down the sponge before the front door slammed.
Junie burst in, backpack half open, cheeks flushed.
“Mom! Tomorrow you have to pack one more lunchbox!”
I blinked, rinsing soap from my hands. “One more? Why, sweetheart? Did Mommy not pack enough?”
She tossed her backpack onto the floor and rolled her eyes, like I should already know.
“For my sister.”
