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Two days later, a doctor stood at the foot of my bed, his expression already rehearsed. He spoke gently, clinically.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Your baby’s gone.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry at first. I just stared at the wall, trying to understand how something could exist—and then disappear—without ever being held.
That was when the nurse came.
She was middle-aged, with soft eyes and hands that moved slowly, as if the world needed gentleness to survive. She sat beside me and wiped my tears with a tissue I hadn’t realized I needed.
“You’re young,” she whispered. “Life still has plans for you.”
I didn’t believe her.
How could life have plans after taking everything?
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