The beeping monitor was the first sound I heard when I opened my eyes. The ICU lights buzzed faintly and yellow above me. My belly was flat under the blanket, and the pain was deeper than any wound a scalpel could leave.
I was 41 and pregnant after fourteen years of trying, five miscarriages buried in silence, and more heartbreak than I knew how to name. Then, finally, there were two heartbeats on a screen.
Now there were none.
The ache in my chest drowned out even the pain in my stomach.
A warm hand wrapped around mine, and I turned my head slowly on the pillow. Daniel sat in the plastic chair beside my bed, his eyes red, his shirt creased as though he had been sleeping in it for days.
“Lydia,” he whispered. “You’re awake. Oh God, you’re awake.”
I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. The ache in my chest drowned out even the pain in my stomach.