A mother overflowing with joy at her newborn | Source: Unsplash
“She’s perfect,” Lila whispered, cradling the crying baby against her chest. “Look at her, Anna. She’s beautiful.”
Miranda had dark hair and a nose identical to Lila’s. She was beautiful, with her wrinkles and her newborn appearance.
“We did the right thing,” Lila said through tears.
For five years, we managed. Lila found a better job. I worked overtime whenever Miranda needed new shoes or her birthday was coming up.
We learned what it meant to be a family… the three of us against a world that had never promised us anything.
Silhouette of two women and a small girl watching the sunset from a bench | Source
: Midjourney
Miranda used to call me “Aunt Anna” and would sit on my lap during movie nights. She’d fall asleep on my shoulder, drooling on my shirt, and I’d carry her to her bed, thinking maybe that was happiness.
Then that fateful day arrived.
Lila was driving to work when a delivery truck ran a red light. The impact killed her instantly. The police officer who broke the news to me said, “She didn’t suffer,” as if that could offer any comfort.
1 2
