One was sleeping.
The other was awake, moving her hand slowly beneath the blanket.
I walked closer.
For the first time since giving birth, I really looked at them.
Not at the diagnosis.
Not at the future I was terrified of.
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At them.
My daughters.
Baby A had a little crease between her eyebrows.
Baby B had the roundest cheeks I had ever seen.
As I leaned over the crib, one tiny hand moved toward the other.
Her fingers found her sister’s hand.
And closed around it.
I covered my mouth.
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The nurse beside me whispered, “They’ve been doing that since they were brought in here.”
Something inside me collapsed.
All the fear, shame, anger, and confusion poured out at once.
“I left them.”
The nurse didn’t answer.
“I heard them crying, and I still left.”
I reached through the opening in the crib.
One of my daughters wrapped her fingers around mine.
Her entire hand barely covered the tip of my finger.
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But she held on.
I started sobbing.
“I’m sorry.”
Brian stood behind me.
I didn’t turn around.
“I’m so sorry.”
A social worker arrived less than ten minutes later.
I immediately told her I wanted to withdraw everything I had signed.
Her expression was serious.
“You need to understand that this may not be as simple as tearing up the paperwork.”
“I understand.”
“There will be evaluations.”
“Fine.”
“Interviews.”
“Fine.”
“You made a very serious statement when you said you couldn’t care for them.”
“I was terrified.”
She studied me.
“And what changed?”
I looked down at my daughters.
“Nothing changed about them.”
Then I looked at Brian.
“Everything changed about what I knew.”
The social worker nodded slowly.
The next several days were the hardest of my life.
I barely slept.
I answered questions from social workers, doctors, counselors, and hospital administrators.
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Brian admitted that he had hidden the prenatal information from me.
He kept saying he had done it because he loved me.
