“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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