On the twelfth day, Maggie died.
There was never a clean explanation. Her death certificate used words that sounded official without telling me why my little girl was gone.
I hated the doctors for not knowing.
On the twelfth day, Maggie died.
I hated myself for believing them when they said they still had options.
Most of all, I hated people who told me Maggie was « in a better place, » because I knew exactly where her better place had been.
At home. With us.
Paul and I never had another child.
Most of all, I hated people who told me Maggie was « in a better place, »
Two years after Maggie died, Paul asked if I ever thought about trying again.
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