Sarah's POV
The nurse placed them in my arms, two fraternal bundles wrapped in hospital-issued blankets. They were so small, so perfect, their tiny faces scrunched up like they were already disappointed with the world they'd entered. Maybe they knew. Maybe they could sense the impossible choice waiting for them.
"They're beautiful," I whispered, tears blurring my vision as I looked up at Michael. His face was a mask of conflicting emotions, joy and terror battling for dominance. He should have been beaming with pride. This should have been the happiest day of our lives.
Instead, I watched him count the dollars in his head again. The same mental math we'd been doing for months. Rent was due in two weeks. The electricity had been shut off twice already this year. The factory where Michael worked had cut his hours again. My waitressing tips barely covered groceries.
And now there were two more mouths to feed. Two more bodies to clothe. Two more lives depending on us.
We hadn't planned for twins. One baby was miracle enough for a couple who'd been told conception would be difficult. One baby we could manage, barely, with sacrifices and careful planning. But two? The doctor's announcement had hit us like a physical blow months ago. Two heartbeats. Double the joy and double the fear.
"Do you want to hold them?" I asked Michael, my voice catching.
He approached like a man walking to his execution, slow and reluctant, but his hands were gentle as he took one of our daughters.
"This one has your nose," he said softly, running a finger down her perfect little face.
"And this one has your chin." I smiled down at the baby still in my arms. They were fraternal, of course, but in that moment, I needed to believe they were the same, even though we could tell them apart. That they were already becoming their own people.
Because soon, one of them wouldn't be ours anymore.
The thought made me clutch my baby tighter, and she squirmed against me, her mouth opening in a tiny yawn. I pressed my lips to her forehead, memorizing her scent, the feel of her skin against mine.
"We don't have to decide right now," Michael said, reading my thoughts as he always could. "We can take them both home. Figure something out."
Hope fluttered in my chest, desperate and wild, but I pushed it down. We'd been over this a hundred times. We'd considered every possibility, explored every option. Even with government assistance, even if Michael worked double shifts and I went back to waiting tables as soon as I physically could, we couldn't provide for two infants. Not the way they deserved.
"And what happens when we can't make rent?" I asked, the words bitter on my tongue. "When we can't afford formula for both of them? When we have to choose which one gets new clothes and which one makes do with hand-me-downs that are falling apart?"
Michael didn't answer. He didn't have to. We both knew the truth.
The social worker had been kind when we'd met with her last month, her eyes full of sympathy but free from judgment. She'd explained the process, assuring us that a healthy newborn would be placed with a loving family immediately. A family with resources. A family who could give our child everything we couldn't.
"It's the most loving choice you can make," she'd said. "The most selfless gift."
It hadn't felt like love or a gift when we'd signed the preliminary paperwork. It had felt like failure. Like having a limb amputated before we'd even seen our babies' faces.
A soft knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. The nurse poked her head in, her smile professional but warm.
"How are we doing in here? Do our little ladies need anything?"
"We're fine," Michael answered, his voice stronger than I'd expected. "Just getting to know them."
The nurse nodded and withdrew, leaving us alone again with our daughters and our impossible decision.
"Which one?" Michael asked after a long silence, the question hanging in the air between us like a guillotine blade.
I shook my head, unable to form the words. How could we choose? They were fraternal but identical in every way that mattered. Same weight, same length, same perfect little fingers and toes. Same soft wisps of dark hair. Same blue eyes that might yet change color.
"We could flip a coin," Michael suggested with a hollow laugh that held no humor.
"That's not funny," I whispered, though I understood the desperate impulse. To leave it to chance. To absolve ourselves of the responsibility.
He sat on the edge of the hospital bed, the baby still cradled in his arms. "I know. I'm sorry. I just don't know how we're supposed to make this choice."
Neither did I. I looked down at the daughter in my arms, then at her sister. The one Michael held was sleeping peacefully, her little chest rising and falling with each breath. The one I held was awake, her unfocused eyes seeming to search my face.
"This one," I said suddenly, the words escaping before I'd fully formed the thought. "I want to keep this one."
Michael looked up, surprise and relief washing over his face. "Are you sure?"
I wasn't sure of anything, but I nodded anyway. "She... she looked at me, Michael. Like she knows me." It was irrational, I knew. Newborns couldn't focus their eyes properly, couldn't recognize faces. But I'd felt something, a connection, a bond that felt impossible to break.
"Okay," Michael said, his voice thick with emotion. "Then we'll keep her. We'll name her Olivia, like we planned."
"Olivia," I repeated, testing the name against the reality of the tiny person in my arms. It fit her somehow. "Olivia Reynolds."
"And her sister?" Michael asked, looking down with unbearable tenderness at the baby he held.
The name Emma had been our other choice, the one we'd settled on if our baby was a girl. Now we had two girls, and it seemed right that they should both have the names we'd chosen with such care, even if one would soon have a different last name.
"Emma," I said, the word catching in my throat. "Her name is Emma."
Michael nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks as he gently bounced Emma in his arms. "Hello, Emma. I'm your dad. And I..." His voice broke. "I love you so much, little one. I need you to know that. Wherever you go, whatever happens, you are loved."
His words shattered what was left of my composure. I began to sob, ugly heaving cries that I couldn't control. The nurse must have heard, because she appeared in the doorway again, concern etched on her face.
"Mrs. Reynolds? Are you in pain? Should I get the doctor?"
I shook my head, unable to explain that the pain wasn't physical. That no medication could touch it.
"We're just emotional," Michael explained, his own voice unsteady. "Could we... could we have a little more time alone?"
The nurse nodded sympathetically. "Of course. Just press the call button if you need anything."
When she'd gone, Michael moved closer, sitting beside me so that both babies were nestled between us.
"We still have time," he said. "The adoption isn't final until we sign the papers. We could still change our minds."
Hope surged again, painful in its intensity. "Do you think we could make it work? Somehow?"
Michael was quiet for a long moment, his face a study in conflict. "I want to say yes," he finally answered. "God, I want that more than anything. But Sarah... I don't think we can. Not without both of them suffering."
Reality crashed back over me, cold and inescapable. The cramped one-bedroom apartment above the laundromat. The unreliable heat. The second-hand crib we'd scraped together money for, just one, because that was all we'd expected to need. The stack of bills on our kitchen table, many of them stamped with final notices.
"I know," I whispered. "I know we can't."
We sat in silence for a while, both of us memorizing every detail of our daughters' faces. The slight difference in the shape of their ears. The way Emma's little nose twitched in her sleep while Olivia's stayed perfectly still. Things only parents would notice. Things we would hold onto forever.
"The Phillips family," Michael said eventually. "The social worker said they've been waiting for a baby for three years. She showed us their profile, remember? The husband is a high school teacher. The wife works from home as a graphic designer. They have a nice house with a yard. A dog. She said they're good people."
I nodded, remembering the smiling couple in the photos. They'd looked kind. Stable. Everything we weren't right now.
"Emma will have her own room," I said, trying to find comfort in the thought. "And they live in a good school district."
"And they can afford to send her to college someday," Michael added. "Give her opportunities we can't."
We were trying to convince ourselves, I knew. Trying to ease the guilt that threatened to drown us both. But it wasn't working. Nothing could make this feel right or good or bearable.
"Will they tell her about us?" I asked, a fresh wave of tears threatening.
"The social worker said that would be up to them. It's a closed adoption, but when she turns eighteen, if she wants to find us..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Eighteen years. A lifetime. My baby would grow up calling another woman "Mom." Would celebrate birthdays and Christmases and first days of school without us. Would have an entire life we wouldn't be part of.
"What if she hates us?" I whispered, voicing my deepest fear. "What if she finds out someday and thinks we didn't want her?"
Michael shook his head fiercely. "No. We'll write her a letter. Explain everything. The social worker said we could include one in her file. We'll make sure she knows this wasn't about not wanting her. That we loved her too much to keep her in poverty."
I wasn't sure if that would be enough, if any explanation could ever be enough for what we were about to do, but I nodded anyway.
"We should write it tonight," I said. "Before we... before."
Michael agreed, his face haggard with grief. "I'll ask the nurse for some paper."
The day passed in a blur of feeding and changing and holding our girls. Nurses came and went. A lactation consultant tried to help me nurse both babies, but I couldn't focus on her instructions. All I could think was that soon, I wouldn't need to know how to tandem feed. That another woman would be giving my daughter a bottle while I nursed her sister.
The social worker visited in the afternoon, her expression gentle as she explained the final paperwork. The Phillips family was already in town, she told us. They'd arrived as soon as they'd received the call that the babies had been born. They were staying at a hotel nearby, waiting.
"They're very excited," she said, as if that might comfort us. "They've been preparing for months."
I tried to be happy for them, for Emma, but all I felt was a hollow ache where my heart should have been.
That evening, after dinner trays had been cleared and the hospital had quieted for the night, Michael and I wrote our letter to Emma. We poured out our love and regret onto the hospital stationery, explaining our circumstances, our impossible choice, and our hopes for her future. We included a photo of the four of us, the only family picture we would ever have. Michael's hand shook as he sealed the envelope and gave it to the night nurse to include in Emma's file.
"Are you ready?" he asked me as midnight approached. The social worker had arranged for the handover to happen after visiting hours, when the maternity ward was quiet and we could say our goodbyes in private.
I would never be ready, but I nodded anyway. We had dressed Emma in one of the two going-home outfits we'd brought, a soft yellow sleeper with tiny ducks embroidered on the feet. Olivia wore its match. It felt important somehow that they leave the hospital in identical clothes, even if they were headed for different lives.
"Can I have a minute alone with her?" I asked Michael.
He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then to Emma's, before slipping out of the room with Olivia in his arms.
When they were gone, I held Emma close, breathing in her newborn scent, feeling her warmth against my chest.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my tears falling onto her blanket. "I'm so sorry, my sweet girl. This isn't what I wanted for us. I wanted to keep you both so badly." My voice broke on a sob. "I hope someday you'll understand. I hope someday you'll forgive us."
Emma slept peacefully, unaware that her life was about to change forever. Unaware that she had a sister who would grow up without knowing her.
A soft knock at the door signaled that it was time. The social worker entered, her face composed but sympathetic.
"The Phillips are ready," she said. "Mr. Reynolds is with them in the family room."
I nodded, unable to speak. With trembling hands, I swaddled Emma more securely in her blanket, then pressed one last desperate kiss to her forehead.
"I love you," I whispered. "Always."
The walk to the family room was the longest of my life. Each step felt like moving through concrete, my body rebelling against what my mind had decided. My arms tightened around Emma, reluctant to let her go.
Michael was waiting outside the door, Olivia asleep against his shoulder. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale.
"They seem nice," he said hoarsely. "They brought a car seat. And a blanket her grandmother made."
I nodded mechanically, trying to find comfort in these details. Emma would be loved. She would be cared for. That had to be enough.
The Phillips were inside, a couple in their mid-thirties, their faces alight with nervous excitement. The woman had kind eyes and a gentle smile. The man stood with his arm around her, protective and proud. They looked like they belonged in a catalog for happy families. They looked like they could give Emma everything we couldn't.
"Mrs. Reynolds," the social worker said gently. "Are you ready to meet the Phillips?"
No. I would never be ready. But I nodded anyway, allowing myself to be guided into the room.
What followed was a surreal exchange of pleasantries, as if we were distant relatives meeting at a family reunion rather than strangers participating in the most heartbreaking transaction of my life. The Phillips thanked us repeatedly, their voices choked with emotion. They promised to love Emma with all their hearts. To give her the best life possible.
I believed them. That was the cruel irony, I truly believed they would be wonderful parents. And that knowledge, rather than comforting me, only deepened my grief. Because they would get to witness all the moments I would miss. First steps. First words. First day of school. First heartbreak. All the milestones that would make up the tapestry of my daughter's life.
When the time came to hand her over, I froze. My arms refused to extend, my body instinctively protecting my child.
"Sarah," Michael whispered, his hand on my shoulder. "It's time."
I looked up at him, silently pleading for another solution, another way out. But there was none. With every ounce of strength I possessed, I passed Emma to her new mother, who received her with reverent hands.
"We'll take such good care of her," Mrs. Phillips promised, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you. Thank you for this precious gift."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Could only watch as this stranger cradled my child, cooing softly to her, while her husband leaned in to touch Emma's cheek with a gentle finger.
The social worker guided us through the final paperwork, signatures that severed our legal ties to Emma forever. My hand moved as if controlled by someone else, signing away my rights to a child I had carried for nine months. A child I had just met but loved with every fiber of my being.
And then it was done. The Phillips gathered their things, the diaper bag they'd brought, the car seat with Emma securely fastened inside. They paused at the door, uncertainty on their faces, as if they didn't know the proper protocol for this moment. What was the etiquette for taking someone's child?
"Could we... would it be okay if we sent you updates?" Mrs. Phillips asked hesitantly. "Photos maybe? The social worker said it would be a closed adoption, but we'd be willing,,,"
"No," I interrupted, the word sharp and sudden. It wasn't what I'd meant to say. Part of me desperately wanted those updates, those glimpses into Emma's life. But another part, the part that might actually survive this night, knew it would be a slow torture. "I mean... it's better if we make a clean break. For everyone."
Mrs. Phillips nodded, understanding in her eyes. "If you ever change your mind..."
"We have your information," the social worker assured us. "If either of you ever wants to reach out, it can be arranged."
And then they were gone, taking my daughter with them. I stood frozen, staring at the empty doorway, unable to process what had just happened. It felt unreal, like a nightmare I would soon wake from.
Michael's arm came around me, Olivia still nestled against his other shoulder. "Let's go back to the room," he said gently. "You need to rest."
I let him guide me through the corridors, past nurses who averted their eyes, recognizing our grief for what it was. Back in the hospital room, the absence of Emma was a physical presence. An empty bassinet. One less blanket. The space in my arms where she should have been.
I climbed into the bed, my body aching in ways that had nothing to do with childbirth. Michael placed Olivia in my arms, and I held her close, drawing comfort from her warmth, her familiar scent.
"We did the right thing," Michael said, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as me. "She'll have a good life."
I nodded numbly, unable to speak past the knot in my throat. Perhaps someday I would believe that. Perhaps someday the knife-edge of this pain would dull to something bearable. But not tonight. Tonight, the wound was raw and bleeding.
Michael sat beside me on the bed, his arm around both Olivia and me, forming a protective circle. We stayed that way for a long time, silent except for our quiet tears and Olivia's occasional soft noises.
"I should..." Michael finally said, glancing at his watch. It was nearly three in the morning. "I told the Phillips I'd bring their car around. They didn't want to take her through the main entrance. Too many people, even at this hour."
I nodded mechanically. We'd discussed this, the back exit, the quiet handover in the parking lot. One final service we could provide for Emma's new parents, sparing them curious looks and questions.
"I'll be back soon," Michael promised, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
I watched him leave, then looked down at Olivia, sleeping peacefully in my arms. She had no idea that her life had just been irrevocably altered. That somewhere in the same hospital, her sister was being carried away by strangers. That the twin bond they might have shared had been severed before it could form.
"It's just us now," I whispered to her. "But I promise, I'll love you enough for two. I'll give you everything I have. Everything I am."
Through the window, I could see the hospital parking lot, dimly lit by security lights. I watched as Michael emerged from the building, a tiny bundle cradled carefully in his arms, Emma, for the last time. He walked slowly toward a waiting car, where two figures stood anxiously. Even from this distance, I could see the care with which he handed my daughter over, the way he lingered for a moment, reluctant to let go.
The car pulled away, taillights receding into the night, carrying Emma toward her new life. Toward a family that wasn't us. A future we wouldn't share.
I pressed my face against Olivia's hair, breathing in her scent, trying to anchor myself to the child I still had. The child I would raise and love and protect with everything in me.
Michael returned a few minutes later, his face streaked with fresh tears. He didn't speak, didn't need to. I could read the devastation in every line of his body as he collapsed into the chair beside my bed.
"She's gone," he finally said, his voice barely audible.
"I know."
He reached out, placing his hand on Olivia's back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing. "We'll tell her someday. About her sister."
I nodded, though the thought of that conversation filled me with dread. How would we explain our choice? How would Olivia feel knowing we'd kept her but given up her twin?
"Not until she's old enough to understand," I said.
"Of course." Michael's hand found mine, squeezing gently. "We'll get through this, Sarah. Somehow."
I wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him. For Olivia's sake, if not for my own.
Outside, the night gave way to the first hints of dawn, pale light creeping across the horizon. A new day. The first of many without Emma. The first of many with just the three of us, a family forever marked by absence. By the daughter who should have been in my other arm. By the choice we'd made in desperation and love and heartbreak.
As Olivia stirred against me, her tiny face scrunching before relaxing back into sleep, I made a silent promise to both my daughters; to the one in my arms and the one now miles away, being rocked to sleep by another woman.
I would survive this. For them. And somehow, someday, I would find a way to make peace with the impossible choice we'd made on this longest of nights.