At thirty-four weeks, Rosie was rushed to the hospital.
The doctors’ prognosis was grim.
The pregnancy was difficult.
The waiting room clock ticked past midnight.
I stared at the double doors where they had wheeled Rosie in, willing them to swing open with good news.
Ben sat beside me, his knee bouncing.
“She’s going to be okay,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “Rosie is strong.”
Ben pressed his palms against his eyes.
I heard a sound come out of him that was somewhere between a sob and a prayer.
The waiting room clock ticked past midnight.
Then a doctor pushed through the double doors.
Ben lurched to his feet.
The doctor’s face told me the truth before his mouth did.
“She’s lost a lot of blood. We’ve stabilized the babies, but Rosie is crashing. We’re doing everything we can, but you need to prepare yourselves.”
The doctor disappeared back through the doors.
Ben stood there, frozen, swaying slightly.
