a letter for my unborn child

The sterile white of the hospital waiting room was a grim backdrop to my sister Jessica' s desperate pleas; her son, Ethan, was dying, and my eight-year-old Lily was the only match for a kidney.

I refused, unwilling to risk my daughter' s life, but my husband Mark, seemingly my protector, assured me he' d handle it, his words a comforting balm.

The next day, Lily vanished from our secure backyard as if swallowed by thin air, plunging me into a suffocating panic that clawed at my chest.