“Have a child?” comes out in place of “Happy birthday, darling,” splitting me in two. “Yes, I know,” answers the echo of what’s left of me. “You know?” my husband says, stunned. “What are we going to do?” I look at him, choking with pain. In the apartment, our daughter cries hysterically. She begs to come to us, but they won’t let her.
“Dad!” she screams.
“Mom! I’m dying…” I see it in his eyes. Our love is squeezed in a fist. Press and it will burst—turn into bloody pulp that will drip onto dirty concrete.
“I’ll be waiting for you, forgive me. I have to go.”
“Dad!” the little one cries.
Tim runs down the stairs, and I can’t take a step or even breathe. Right now I’m even grateful that my girl is crying. It’s the only thing keeping me on my feet, the only thing that keeps me conscious.