Eight years ago, my husband told me one of my newborn twins had died. Last week, I walked into my son’s school office and saw two identical boys staring back at me.

Eight years ago, I went into labor too early with twin boys. When I woke up two days later, there was one bassinet beside my bed and one sleeping baby inside it.

I turned my head and whispered, “Where’s the other baby?”

Mark lowered his eyes. “He didn’t make it.”

After that, I poured all my love into Cole.

I never saw a body. I never attended a funeral. Mark said he had handled everything while I was unconscious. I believed him because I had no strength left for anything else.

After that, I poured all my love into Cole. He was loud, funny, stubborn, and I told myself grief had an afterlife, and this was mine.

Mark changed after the birth. He became quieter and more careful about what he told me. If I asked about the funeral, he said he could not bear to describe it again. I took his distance for grief because I did not know it was guilt.

“He keeps saying we have the same dad but different moms. It’s so annoying.”

By the time Cole started elementary school, our life looked steady again. Then he came home one evening, threw his backpack on the floor, and snapped, “Stefan called me his brother again.”

I almost smiled. “Maybe he’s teasing you.”

Cole glared at me. “He keeps saying we have the same dad but different moms. It’s so annoying.”

For one second, my stomach tightened. Then I told myself kids said strange things. I told Cole to ignore him. He stormed upstairs, and I tried to forget it.