Two Weeks After Our Baby Died, My 8-Year-Old Whispered, “Mom, She Isn’t Gone—I Saw What Daddy Did at the Hospital”
“She was in a blanket.”
“Did you see her face?”
He shook his head.
“Daddy touched her head.”
My breath stopped.
“Then Aunt Nora walked away with her.”
I stared at my son.
Nora had a daughter.
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