[Angela]
I recovered fairly quickly, according to the doctor. I think it was due to the reason Patrick brought our daughters to see me everyday, murmuring to them how amazing I was, etcetera etcetera. He could never stand my embarrassed reaction and we'd end up kissing again.
I was out of the emergency ward in two days, into the maternity ward, with my daughters in little plastic cots beside my bed. I was worried about the younger one, she was so small. We named her Anne, and her older sister Charlotte. Anne was…tiny. She had to be tiny, the doctor didn't even know she was in me. No wonder my womb was larger than I'd expected in the end. Not that I regretted carrying Anne, but the doctors should have known.
Three days later Anne fell sick. Patrick and I were terribly worried, clutching Charlotte to our sides the whole time, afraid she would catch the disease too. I prayed and prayed nothing would happen to Anne. Two days later I heard the horrible news.
Perhaps I did not pray hard enough.
Perhaps God did not hear me.
Perhaps I wasn't good enough a mother.
Anne died.
She died in my arms, her little arms clutching at my chest as she wheezed painful breaths and cried pitiful little wails. My heart broke seeing my baby daughter suffer the pain she did not deserve. My tears dropped onto her skinny little face and she calmed down a little, burrowing into my breasts for the last mouthfuls of milk before she took her last lungful of air. Her little whines and protests died down as breathing became harder and harder. With a tiny shudder, her eyelids fluttered close, never to open again.
It wasn't fair.
The pain I felt was indescribable. It shattered my heart to a million pieces. What did I do wrong? Tears streamed down for a whole two days and when there were no more left to shed, my heart never mended itself. There would forever be a gaping hole where my younger daughter should have been, where I should have watched her grow up into a young lady and live her life, like her sister will.
It wasn't fair.