I believed I’d buried one of my twin sons the day they were born. Five years later, a single moment at a playground made me question everything I thought I knew about that loss.I’m Lana, and my son Stefan was five years old when my whole world tilted on its axis.Five years earlier, I’d gone into labor believing I would leave with twin sons.The pregnancy had been complicated from the start. I was put on modified bed rest at 28 weeks because of high blood pressure.My obstetrician, Dr. Perry, kept saying, “You need to stay calm, Lana. Your body’s working overtime.”

I did everything right. I ate what they told me, took every vitamin, and attended every appointment. I talked to my belly every night.”Hold on, boys,” I used to whisper. “Mom’s right here.”The delivery came three weeks early and was difficult.I remembered someone saying, “We’re losing one,” and then everything blurred.When I woke up hours later, Dr. Perry stood beside my bed with a grave expression.”I’m so sorry, Lana,” he said gently. “One of the twins didn’t make it.”I remember only seeing one baby. Stefan.They told me there’d been complications and that Stefan’s brother was stillborn.I was weak as the nurse guided my shaking hand to sign the forms. I didn’t even read them.I never told Stefan about his twin. I couldn’t. How do you explain to a small child something they shouldn’t have to carry? I convinced myself that silence was protection.