The day Laura went into labor started out with so much hope. My phone rang at 6:30 a.m., and I knew before I answered what it meant.
“It’s happening, Em,” Laura said, her voice a little shaky but filled with that nervous excitement I’d been waiting months to hear. “I think today’s the day. The contractions are getting closer.”
“I’m on my way,” I told her, already throwing on clothes. “Don’t you dare have that baby without me.”
She laughed. “I’ll try my best to hold her in.”
Mom and I rushed to the hospital, our hands full of bags and blankets and all the things we’d been preparing for weeks.
When we got to Laura’s room, she was already in a hospital gown. She smiled when she saw me.
“Don’t look so worried,” she teased, reaching for my hand. “I’ll be fine. Women have been doing this forever.”
“I know,” I said, squeezing her fingers. “But none of those women were my sister.”
We waited for hours. The clock on the wall moved more slowly with every contraction. Laura would grip my hand so hard I thought my bones might break, but I never pulled away.
Between contractions, we’d talk about silly things. What the baby would look like. Whether she’d have Laura’s stubborn streak. What kind of mom Laura would be.
“The best kind,” I told her. “You’ve always been the best at everything.”
Then, suddenly, everything turned chaotic. One moment, Laura was breathing through another contraction, and the next, machines were beeping frantically. Doctors began moving faster and nurses rushed in and out of the room.
Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door.
“You need to step outside,” a nurse said firmly. “Now.”
“But my sister—” I started to protest.
“Please,” she insisted, and something in her eyes made me obey.
I stood in that hallway with my mother, both of us frozen, listening to muffled voices and the sound of rushing feet. Minutes felt like hours.
I never saw Laura alive again.
A doctor came out later, his face pale and drawn. He pulled off his surgical mask slowly.
“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. “There were complications during delivery. She lost too much blood too quickly. We did everything we could, but we couldn’t save her.”
I remember the sound of my mother’s cry. It was sharp and broken, like something inside her had physically snapped.
When a nurse placed the baby in my arms a few hours later, I looked down at her tiny face. She had Laura’s nose, the same curve to her lips. She was perfect. And her mother would never know her.
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