I was told that one of my twins had not survived. I never held her in my arms, never whispered goodbye, and the grief settled quietly in my chest, an ache I carried alone through days and nights.
Life moved forward, but there was always a part of me missing, an empty space in the routine of daily life that no distraction, social activity, or busy schedule could fill or truly soothe.
Then, one ordinary afternoon, after my surviving daughter’s first day of school, she said something that stopped me completely: “Mom, tomorrow pack one more lunch… for my sister,” her voice full of certainty and innocence.
