The Wrong Photo Arrived From Manhattan on Christmas Eve While My Twins Were Crying

I sat on the edge of the velvet armchair, staring at the tall clock by the window.

The brass pendulum swung back and forth behind the glass with a heavy click every second.

My grandmother leaned both hands on her silver-tipped cane.

She tapped the hardwood floor twice.

“Sitting there staring at that clock won’t bring those babies back one minute sooner,” Margaret said.

“They’ve never spent two nights away from me,” I said.

“They’re six months old,” Margaret said, her voice blunt and dry.

“They’ll sleep wherever they’re put down, and they’ll be back in your arms in forty-four hours.”