My sister pushed me down the stairs at 8 months pregnant. “Apologize for making her angry,” mom demanded as I bled. “You know how stressed she is with her divorce.” I apologized. Then I made one phone call. They had no idea what I would do next…

where her first two miscarriages lived. Nine weeks. Thirteen weeks. Two quiet exam rooms. Two doctors using gentle voices. Two times her body had gone from carrying a future to carrying grief before Emma even understood how quickly a life could disappear.