The second was that nobody would tell me where my husband was.
My name is Claire Mercer.
I was thirty-two years old when my twins were born seven weeks early.
The delivery was not supposed to happen that morning.
I had gone to Willowcrest because my blood pressure had spiked during a routine appointment.
By noon, doctors were talking about fetal distress.
By one, I was signing consent forms with shaking hands.
By two, someone was pushing my bed through double doors while my husband, Ethan Vale, walked beside me saying:
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