Two Weeks After Our Baby Died, My 8-Year-Old Whispered, “Mom, She Isn’t Gone—I Saw What Daddy Did at the Hospital”
“Do not call me that right now.”
He stopped.
I ordered a car.
For once, I did not allow his concern to become control.
PART 12 — CLARA AT THE DOOR
Nora opened the door holding Clara.
The sight hurt.
I hated myself for that.
Not Clara.
The contrast.
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