Later, a nurse quietly told me the truth.
Eva had been sitting in the waiting room for fourteen hours.
For illustrative purposes only
She had coordinated everything with my husband. She made sure everyone was fed. She brought a bag of my favorite postpartum snacks—the ones I crave when I’m stressed—that she knew my biological mom would never think to pack. She asked the nurses how I was doing. She waited.
After the twins were born, my biological mom rushed to take photos. She posed, smiled, uploaded them immediately. “My beautiful grandbabies,” she captioned them.
Through the glass, Eva caught my eye.
Just for a second.
She gave me a small, supportive nod. No anger. No accusation. Just love. Then she quietly walked back to the waiting room.
That was the moment it hit me.
While I was chasing the status of a biological mother, I had pushed away the only woman who had ever truly known how to be one.
Now I sit here, holding these two perfect lives, and I feel so unwell. Not physically—though I am exhausted—but deep in my soul. I traded unconditional love for a fantasy. I hurt the person who never once hurt me.
And for the first time since becoming a mother myself, I finally understand what Eva must have felt all those years: loving someone enough to step aside, even when it breaks your heart.
