I turned to my sister-in-law, my eyes hollow, empty.
"My children are dead. I have nothing left. Please... just let me go. I don't want anything anymore."
By the time we reached the hospital, there were no vital signs to save. They never even made it to the emergency room—they were wheeled straight to the morgue.
My sister-in-law looked at me with pity she couldn't hide, but still tried to comfort me in a soft voice.
"It's going to be okay. Don't worry. Grandpa and I are both on your side. My brother was wrong this time. I'll make sure he apologizes to you. You two can still—"
Before she could finish, I shoved my phone in front of her face.
On the screen was a post Max Simmons had made just two hours ago.
"Before you even came into this world, Mommy and Daddy already loved you."
Attached was an ultrasound report. The name on it was clear: Gretchen Mason. Six weeks pregnant.
Gretchen Mason. My husband's idealized love.
My sister-in-law's voice died in her throat. A moment later, her face twisted with rage.
"I'm calling my brother right now. Don't worry—the Simmons family will give you an explanation for this—"