Lucas stood behind her at the edge of the bed, staring at the newborn as if he were looking at something a million miles away.
“Lucas, look at her,” Hannah cried out gently, her voice cracking with pure relief. “We finally have our baby girl.”
I want to back up because you need to understand what this meant to us before I tell you what happened next. I am thirty-six years old and a single mother.
My seven-year-old son, Mason, is the loudest and kindest little boy I have ever known, and it has been just the two of us since he was two. Lucas is my twin brother, and he has always been my best friend and biggest supporter.
“You do not have to handle everything alone,” Lucas told me five years ago when he slept on my couch for a whole month after our parents died in a car crash. “We are in this together, sis.”
He and his wife, Hannah, had been trying to have a child for six long years, enduring two rounds of failed treatments and a painful pregnancy loss that left deep scars. So when they sat me down at their kitchen table in Phoenix last spring and began asking for help, I did not even let my brother finish his sentence.
“Yes, absolutely,” I told them immediately, reaching across the table to squeeze their hands. “Whatever you need, I will do it for you.”
