The hospital room was too quiet for how much love usually lived in it.

Machines beeped softly. The scent of antiseptic clung to everything—your clothes, your hair, your lungs. Emily hadn’t stirred since she was wheeled into surgery hours ago. The doctors said the shot hit her femoral artery. That they managed to stabilize her. That she was lucky.

Lucky. You hadn’t felt lucky once since the call came in.

You sat in the stiff vinyl chair beside her bed, one hand on her arm, the other resting on your stomach where the twins shifted slowly, as if even they could sense your unease. Every now and then, your thumb traced circles over the back of Emily’s hand, willing her to wake up. To just squeeze once. To do anything.

The door creaked open quietly, and Penelope peeked in. Her eyes were red-rimmed behind her glasses, and she looked like she’d been crying just as hard as you had. Henry and Ezra barreled in behind her, their little sneakers tapping against the floor, and the moment you opened your arms, they threw themselves into your lap like magnets.

“I told them they could come just for a little,” Penelope said softly, setting down their overnight bag. “They kept asking for you. For both of you.”

Ezra clung to your side, thumb in his mouth. Henry was clutching something tight to his chest, a familiar leather-bound photo album, corners worn from years of page turning.

“Hi, baby,” you murmured into their hair. “You guys okay?”

“Better now,” Henry mumbled.

“Still mad,” Ezra added.

Penelope rubbed his back, mouthing sorry to you. You just nodded.

Henry climbed up onto the edge of the hospital bed, careful not to disturb the wires and tubes, and set the album down beside Emily.

“I brought the stories,” he said. “You always tell the best ones when Mama’s sad.”

You smiled tightly, heart aching. “You want to hear some now?”

Both boys nodded, wide-eyed.