“Twins have higher chances of congenital heart defects,” my mother says. “Did you know that?” She touches the edge of the photograph and sighs. “It’s more common in mothers with advanced maternal age. And since I waited until I had tenure…” Her voice trails off. She clears her throat and stares at her hands for a long time. “They knew something was wrong—as soon as you were born, they whisked you both away. They brought you back hours later, but Henry,” she touches the face of the other baby in the photograph, “he was diagnosed with truncus arteriosus, a rare heart disease. Only two hundred or so cases a year in the US.” She swallows. “He was only two weeks old when he had his first open-heart surgery.” She gazes at the corner of the ceiling. “But there were complications. Another surgery. We brought him home, but then he started to cry all the time and had difficulty breathing. He couldn’t catch his breath while breastfeeding. He wasn’t gaining weight or sitting up—”

She turns to the window so I can’t see her face.

“The doctors didn’t know what to do so we flew to Germany—there was a pediatric cardiologist in Berlin who was an expert in truncal valve defects.” She fiddles with the handle of her desk drawer. “The university was incredibly supportive—organized a fellowship for me at the Freie so I could teach, nurse you, and see Henry every day.”

I swallow. “How long were we there?”

“Two years.”

I blink. Two years?

“Your father stayed the first six months, but there were bills and work and he couldn’t stay any longer. He visited as often as he could but,” her voice breaks, “I don’t think he’s ever forgiven himself for not being there, when—” Tears trace lines down her cheeks. She takes a breath. “Henry died early in October. You and I were there when it happened.”

I touch my sternum, but there’s no scar, no flutter or murmur, no sign of the loss I’ve always felt but never understood.

“I used to wonder if you remembered,” she says softly. “Your father and I—we couldn’t talk about it. It was just—too painful.” She smiles sadly. “But you were the bright star in the darkness.”

I try to swallow again but my throat’s dry. I can’t think. Can’t wrap my head around anything. I keep looking at the desk, the scratches from years of my mother’s chair bumping against it. I blink at the handful of student papers lined with red ink.

My mother gazes at me apprehensively. Waiting for me to say something. But there are no words. Nothing. Not in German. Not in English. Just a void where language should be.