“Can I see them?”
“That is not authorized at this time.”
“They’re my daughters.”
“Yes,” Dr. Henson said. “And right now, their environment must remain calm. They are premature infants. Stability matters.”
“I won’t upset them.”
“Your intentions are not the only factor.”
He closed his eyes.
“How is Hope?”
Dr. Henson’s voice softened.
“She had a difficult start, but she’s showing encouraging signs. Her breathing has improved. We’re watching for feeding tolerance and neurological markers.”
“Can you send pictures?”
A pause.
“I’ll ask Mrs. Carter.”
That afternoon, one photograph arrived.
Three tiny hospital bracelets.
Not faces.
Not bodies.
Just three names, printed in black letters.
CARTER, GRACE
CARTER, LILY
CARTER, HOPE
Mark held the phone in both hands.
It was the first thing Emily had allowed him to have.
And somehow, it was enough to undo him.
Days became a strange new discipline.
