The Day My Husband Signed My Baby’s Death

Three weeks ago, the elevator fell with me inside it.

I was thirty-seven weeks pregnant, carrying food I cooked for my husband. Then the floor vanished and my body followed. When I woke up in the hospital, a doctor said, “We need your husband’s consent to operate.”

They called Owen again and again.

When he finally answered, he sounded annoyed. “I’m in a meeting.”

“I’m bleeding,” I whispered. “Please.”

There was laughter on the line. A woman’s voice said, “Owen, hurry. We’re late.”

My twin sister.

By the time help came, my baby was gone. Or so they told me.