I was certain I had buried one of my twin sons the day they were born.
For five years, I carried that grief like a quiet scar beneath my skin. Then one ordinary Sunday at a playground split my world wide open.
My name is Lana. When I was pregnant, I was told from the beginning it wouldn’t be easy. By 28 weeks, I was on modified bed rest for high blood pressure. Dr. Perry kept repeating, “Stay calm, Lana. Your body’s working overtime.”
Every night, I placed my hands on my stomach and whispered, “Hold on, boys. Mom’s right here.”