And for about forty-eight hours, I believed the worst thing my sister had ever done was sleep with my husband.
I was wrong.
Not even close.
Three nights after the party, I could not sleep.
At 4:12 in the morning, I opened the bottom drawer of my dresser.
Beneath old military documents was a freezer bag.
Inside it was a tiny blue knitted cap.
I had made it twelve years earlier.
Back when I was twenty-six.
Back when I was pregnant.
The baby’s father, Daniel, had served with me.
We had planned to marry after deployment.
He died in a vehicle accident three months before our son was born.
I went through the final trimester grieving the man I loved while trying to prepare for a child I desperately wanted.
Brooke was twenty-three then.
She stayed with me constantly.
She attended appointments.
Cooked for me.
Slept on my couch when I had nightmares.
When labor started early one evening, Brooke drove me to a small private clinic outside Fort Carson.
The delivery became complicated.
I hemorrhaged badly.
I remember lights.
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