The following morning, I smiled and helped Rosie create a wedding inspiration board on Pinterest.
“You’ll be my maid of honor,” she told me. “Promise me.”
Part of me kept expecting our parents to interfere.
Instead, they smiled and said Ben would take good care of Rosie.
The wedding was small.
Ben wore a gray suit and cried when Rosie walked down the aisle.
My parents continued smiling.
“You chose well,” Dad said to Ben, patting his shoulder.
The comment hurt.
I watched Ben slide the ring onto Rosie’s finger.
And I wondered whether I had ever truly known my best friend.
Three years passed.
Eventually, I moved beyond my hurt feelings and met a wonderful man.
Rosie and Ben moved into a small yellow house near the edge of town.
Every morning at nine, Rosie called to tell me what she was wearing.
Then came the call I had always prayed for.
“I’m going to be a mom,” Rosie whispered. “We’re having twins.”
I dropped onto the floor of my apartment, crying and laughing together.
All her life, people had claimed Rosie would never have a normal future.
Now she was going to become a mother.
I should have known happiness that enormous would not arrive alone.
The pregnancy became difficult.
At thirty-four weeks, Rosie was rushed to the hospital.
The doctors gave us a grim prognosis.
The waiting room clock moved past midnight.
I stared at the double doors through which they had taken Rosie, willing them to open with good news.
Ben sat beside me, one knee bouncing uncontrollably.
