Elise died five days after giving birth. The hospital described it as a rare complication, a phrase that sounded neat and professional while leaving a crater in my chest that nothing could fill.
I held her hand as the warmth faded from her skin and could not understand how someone so alive could disappear in a matter of hours. When I carried the twins home I entered a house that suddenly felt enormous and hollow, where every hallway echoed and every breath tasted like cold metal.
One twin named Caleb Langley slept quietly and rarely cried. The other named Miles Langley screamed with a desperate intensity that shook his tiny body.
Doctors examined him repeatedly and found nothing unusual. A pediatric specialist eventually told me it was severe infant distress and suggested medication to help him rest.
I agreed because grief had hollowed me out and exhaustion blurred every decision.
My sister in law Diana Grant moved into the penthouse soon after Elise’s funeral. She arrived with elegant black dresses, expensive perfume, and a voice that sounded smooth enough to slide through any conversation.