“Help is on the way.”
“Keep compressing.”
“Is there any movement?”
“No,” I choked out. “No, no, no—Lily, baby, come on.”
I breathed for her. I pressed again. The nursery blurred. The pastel floral wallpaper I had chosen when I was seven months pregnant and still stupid enough to believe that love from one side of a family could make up for the absence of it on the other. The rocking chair Ben had sanded and refinished before he died. The framed ultrasound photo on the dresser. The open diaper caddy. The bottle warming in the kitchen, still half full.
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