My sister stood there, pale and trembling, clothes dirty, hair tangled. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she whispered. I should have shut her out. Instead, I stepped aside.
She moved like a ghost, sat silently clutching her stomach. No excuses, no defenses. Just fear.
Around midnight, I heard her cry out. I found her collapsed in the bathroom, blood pooling beneath her. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” she kept repeating. I didn’t think—I acted. Towels, keys, hospital. I stayed by her side, filled out forms, answered questions. She miscarried. The baby was gone.
