Not that there was much I could do for them. They were in the hands of the doctors and NICU nurses. Initially, I was able to pump breast milk for the twins to supplement the high-calorie formula they were also being fed. I was a little weirded out by being hooked up to a machine, but it was worth it to feel like I was contributing something. In time, it became clear I was one of those women who simply couldn’t produce milk very well, and I wondered if it was the result of my half-gentry heritage, since their women often had similar problems. Regardless, after two weeks, I stopped my attempts, and the twins went on a strictly formula diet. Some of the nurses tried to reassure me that the best antibodies came in the early days and that I’d done a good job in giving what I could. I knew current thinking recommended breast-feeding for much longer, however, again making me feel woefully inadequate.

So, my contribution simply became frequent, daily visits. I watched my children and the machines that supported them, silently counting each breath and heartbeat. I liked to think that Isaac and Ivy could sense my presence, even from inside their boxes. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, but it gave me some hope. I was rarely alone in my visits. One of the Reeds was almost always with me, and I took comfort from that too.

It was probably one of the most stressful times in my life, but progress was made in tiny, agonizing steps. The twins’ prognosis remained good, and before long I was allowed to touch them inside their compartments. The first time I did it, brushing Ivy’s hand, was like a miracle unfolding before me. I was certain I’d never felt anything so soft. And as the one-month mark neared, I was told Isaac and Ivy might have to stay for only one more month, based on their progress. I barely heard that part because it was immediately followed by two pieces of good news. The doctors expected the ventilators to come off soon and also that the twins would be in good enough condition that I could hold them.

“I can’t even imagine that,” I said to Evan as he drove me home that evening. “From the minute they were born, they’ve been these fragile, unreal little things.... To be able to hold them ...” I sighed and leaned my head back. “I can’t wait.”

He flashed me a quick smile. “I hope you’ll let the rest of us have a turn.” I smiled back. In the beginning, I’d thought his visits were simply as a kindness to me. Soon, I’d realized he was coming to regard the twins with as much affection as his aunt and uncle did. He’d gaze at them wonderingly, eyes shining as he let himself get lost in thought.