At first, it almost felt like fate. We stayed up late watching sitcoms, laughing until we were crying for different reasons. We shared bowls of ice cream with bizarre pregnancy toppings — olives one night, peanut butter the next.
More than once, I held her while she sobbed.
“I don’t know how I’m going to do this alone,” she whispered.
“You’re not alone, Vi,” I promised. “You’ve got me. You’ve got us.”
For a moment, I believed that helping her might help me heal.
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