Around midnight, I heard her cry out from the bathroom — a sound so raw it cut straight through me. I rushed in and found her collapsed on the floor, bl00d pooling beneath her.
She kept repeating, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
I didn’t think. I just acted.
I wrapped her in towels, grabbed my keys, and drove her to the hospital. I stayed by her side while doctors rushed her away. I filled out paperwork. I answered questions. I told them her medical history because I knew it better than she did.
She mis.c.arried.
The baby was gone.
When she finally fell asleep in her hospital bed, exhausted and pale, I went home to grab her clean clothes.
While I was washing the ones she’d been wearing, I felt something stitched into the lining of her jumper — a hidden pocket.
Inside was a small velvet pouch.
And inside that pouch was a silver baby bracelet. Tiny. Delicate. With a little pink foot charm.
My hands began to shake.
Engraved on it was a single name:
Angela.
My name.
