Rosie attended every appointment.
Ben read parenting books and assembled two cribs months before they were needed.
Yet complications developed.
Her blood pressure rose dangerously.
At thirty-four weeks, Ben called me from the hospital.
His voice shook.
“They’re taking her into surgery.”
I drove there so quickly that I barely remembered the roads.
The waiting room clock passed midnight.
My parents had not yet arrived.
Ben sat beside me with one knee bouncing uncontrollably.
“She’s going to be okay,” I whispered.
I was speaking to both of us.
“Rosie is strong.”
Ben pressed his palms over his eyes.
A sound escaped him somewhere between a prayer and a sob.
Then a doctor came through the double doors.
Ben jumped to his feet.
The doctor’s expression warned us before he spoke.
“The babies have been delivered. They are premature, but they are stable and receiving support.”
“And Rosie?” Ben asked.
