Brielle died five days after giving birth. The hospital called it an unexpected complication, the kind of phrase that sounds clean and official while leaving a crater behind. I held her hand as her skin cooled, unable to understand how someone so alive could vanish within hours. When I brought the twins home, I entered a world where every hallway echoed, every room felt too large, and every breath tasted like metal.
One of the twins, Aaron, slept easily and rarely cried. The other, Isaiah, screamed with a frantic pitch that never seemed to end. His tiny body shook as if something inside him was fighting to escape. Doctors ran tests 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 I was desperate and exhausted and lost inside grief.