Every injection.
Every appointment.
Every uncomfortable night.
Every stranger who had seen my pregnant stomach and assumed I was preparing to raise another child.
I looked across the room.
“Ethan.”
My twin brother stood behind Vanessa.
He was not crying.
That was strange.
Ethan Bennett cried at commercials involving old dogs.
He cried at our parents’ funeral.
He cried when my son Noah was born because, according to him, “his face was too small to be legal.”
But now, after six years of wanting a child, he simply stared.
“Ethan,” I said again.
“Come meet your daughter.”
