I yank my arm away, push to my feet, and nearly stumble into Ruth. They’re wrong because this is something I know, something I remember, and for some reason they are lying. When I woke up that night, I couldn’t see from the fireworks of pain exploding across my head, and then Dad was there and we were in his truck and then . . . nothing. But she died. I know it because if she had lived, how could I have ever forgotten her? I cover my face with my hands. Why would they lie about this? It’s so cruel. Even now I feel the way her tiny foot pushed against me, straining my skin until I could see the faint shape of a heel sliding underneath. It was otherworldly. It was magical. I pound my palm flat against my head, as if I can shake memories out like coins from a piggy bank. It’s useless. I never got to see her face, hear her cries, cradle her tiny body, or smell her fresh, new skin. I never got the chance to say goodbye. And if I did, those memories drifted away from me and into the vast and empty ocean of all the things I lose, and the only answer that makes sense is that she’s gone.

“My baby died,” I say through my teeth.

Mom lowers her eyes, hands clasped in her lap, face twisted at my pain, I think, and suddenly an angry swell rises up from my toes, and I am reminded of the woman she was—broken, weak, and able to walk away from her own daughter. Something I would never do if I had the choice. I can’t look at her anymore.

Ruth stands, moves into my line of sight. “Listen to me, Claire. Mirabelle lived. That’s Maree’s full name.” Her eyes are wet and I hear a tremble in her voice. It stops me. Ruth is as strong as they come, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry. “We thought we were going to lose you both, but once they delivered her, your seizure stopped. That little girl is a fighter just like you. She lived, Claire. Mirabelle lived.”

The room spins and I want to lie down, but I can’t, not yet, because Ruth is lying, and I need her to stop. “How can that be?” I whisper. “What kind of mother forgets her own child?” I scratch at my arms, the person I truly am exposed, vulnerable, pathetic.

“You couldn’t remember anything after your seizure, sweetheart,” Ruth says. “You assumed that you had lost her.”

I stand in the middle of the room with my hands held out in front of me as though I can swat her words away. My mother sits on the couch, face streaked in tears, watching but letting Ruth talk.