They speak of her in present tense, as if grammar might bargain with fate. They remember the way she laughed with the nurses, asked too many questions, insisted on knowing every name on her chart. They remember how she counted each newborn finger like she was blessing them into a world she fully expected to walk beside. No one can describe the exact instant the room shifted from routine to emergency; only the echo of slammed doors and the hollow space where her voice should have been.
Years later, their house holds both ache and abundance. Three children race down hallways she never walked, arguing over who gets the blue cup, leaving sticky fingerprints on the frame of her photo. At birthdays, frosting melts under candles while her absence hums at the table. They’ve learned that love can stretch impossibly wide, cradling both the life stolen and the lives spared, refusing to let either be diminished by the other.
