“Please,” I gasped into the phone, my voice cracking so badly I barely recognized it as mine. “Mom, please come quick. Lily stopped breathing.”
There was laughter behind her. Music. The pop of something metallic. My sister Harper had gone all out for her gender reveal—balloons, custom cookies, a rented arch with silk peonies in blush and cream, the kind of event that looked less like a family party and more like a sponsored ad for happiness.
My mother lowered her voice, annoyed rather than alarmed. “Natalie, we are at your sister’s reveal. Don’t ruin this for her.”
I stared at Lily on the changing table beneath my shaking hands. Three months old. Pink sleeper. One sock missing. Lips turning a shade no baby’s lips should ever be.
“I’m doing CPR,” I said. “She’s not breathing.”
My father came onto the line, his voice flat and impatient, as if I had interrupted a golf game. “Then call 911 yourself. We’re busy.”
I think something inside me split open right then—not all at once, but enough that I would feel it widening for months afterward.
