He had been perfect. Ten little fingers and ten little toes. She had stared in wonder at the infant, he was too small and was pushed from her womb far too soon, but the moment he was placed on her chest, she was calm. She'd held him until the nurses took him away and it wasn't until her arms were empty that she truly cried. She'd let forth a pitiful wail, her body aching and restless as she shook with sobs. He was perfect.

She couldn't breathe and her fists clenched and unclenched frantically as she searched for something to hold onto, someone to hold onto, anything but the empty room around her. She cried until she collapsed in exhaustion, a heap of limbs and tangled hair against the sterile hospital bedding. She slept then, a dreamless and restless sleep, and how grateful she was for at least that, for his face would haunt her for eternity.

"Kathleen."

She looked up, her husband's face hazy as she struggled to remember where she was. She blinked once, twice, three times before she could see him clearly. His face was white as a ghost, his eyes rimmed red, and it wouldn't be until a week later that Kathleen would register the smell alcohol on his breath. She reached for him, her arms outstretched and her fingers shaking with the effort. And then she remembered.

He didn't move, and she thought she saw him sway, but she couldn't be quite sure. He stayed rooted to his spot just inside the doorway, one of his hands clenched in a fist at his side. Her eyes traveled the veins up his arm, suddenly emptier than she'd ever remembered being. He blamed her. He blamed himself. So did she.

"Mama?" Corrine slowly stepped from behind her father, angelic and pure.

Kathleen barely turned her head to look, a barely audible, "I'm sorry," slipping past her lips.

Her eldest stepped forward, always brave and timid all at once, and she moved to the chair beside the bed. "Everything's going to be alright," she spoke softly and reached for Kathleen's shaking hand.

Wendy followed suit, awkward and unsure as she took her place at her mother's other side. She didn't speak, didn't look Kathleen in the eyes as she reached out with clammy hands to trace the IV tubing down her arm.

She'd been distracted momentarily, the angelic beauty of her two little girls bringing a flutter to her heart, but when she looked up at CW again, her heart ached with a new emptiness. He couldn't look at her, wouldn't touch her, and she felt a wave of nausea wash over her. They were changed.