I was certain I had buried one of my twin sons the day they were born.

For five years, I carried that grief like a quiet scar beneath my skin. Then one ordinary Sunday at a playground split my world wide open.

My name is Lana. When I was pregnant, I was told from the beginning it wouldn’t be easy. By 28 weeks, I was on modified bed rest for high blood pressure. Dr. Perry kept repeating, “Stay calm, Lana. Your body’s working overtime.”

Every night, I placed my hands on my stomach and whispered, “Hold on, boys. Mom’s right here.”

The delivery came three weeks early. I remember bright lights, urgent voices, someone saying, “We’re losing one,” and then nothing.

When I woke up, weak and disoriented, Dr. Perry stood by my bed with that careful, distant look doctors wear when they’re about to change your life.

“I’m so sorry, Lana. One of the twins didn’t make it.”

They placed only one baby in my arms. Stefan.

I never saw the other.

I signed forms I barely understood. A nurse guided my hand. “You need to rest,” she murmured. “You’ve been through enough.”

I believed them.

I never told Stefan about his twin. I told myself silence was protection. Why give a child a ghost to carry?

So I poured everything into loving him. Sunday walks became our ritual. Ducks by the pond. Sticky ice cream fingers. His brown curls bouncing as he ran ahead of me.