Ben and I stood.
The doctor was approaching us.
Something in his expression warned me that he carried news capable of changing all our lives.
Before he reached us, the elevator chimed.
My parents stepped out.
They wore tidy coats and carefully controlled expressions, as though they had arrived for an appointment rather than because their daughter was fighting for her life.
My mother rushed toward us.
“How is she?”
The doctor stopped.
“Rosie is stable.”
For a moment, I could not breathe.
“Both babies are breathing independently,” he continued. “They will remain in neonatal care, but their condition is encouraging.”
A sob escaped me.
I grabbed Ben’s sleeve.
“She made it.”
He covered his mouth, tears running freely down his face.
“She made it, Ben.”
My mother stepped toward me with her arms open.
I moved away.
Her expression changed.
“Cathy?”
I raised the contract.
The color vanished from both my parents’ faces.
“What did you do?”
My mother looked toward Ben.
“You told her?”
“Rosie asked me to,” he said.
I faced my parents.
“You were going to send her away.”
My father lowered his voice.
