Two years ago, our lives took an unexpected turn that sent us on an emotional journey. I discovered I was pregnant again, just under a year after the birth of our daughter, Lily. We had only just begun to wrap our heads around the idea of managing two little ones under the age of two. During my early July appointment to confirm the positive test, my OB suggested I might be further along than we thought, prompting her to schedule an ultrasound for the following day.
At the time, my partner, Mark, was in Texas for work. When I called to let him know about the ultrasound, he offered to shorten his trip. However, after discussing it, we agreed it was unnecessary. My friend was coming over to watch Lily, and this was just a dating ultrasound. Mark had just started a new job, so I encouraged him to stay. Off I went alone.
“Are you sure you’re ready, sweetie?” the ultrasound technician asked as I lay there, feeling exposed and vulnerable.
“Why? Is something wrong?” My heart raced. “There’s no heartbeat, is there?”
She pointed to the screen. “I see two.”
“Wait, two what?”
And there they were—two heartbeats, two sacs, two babies.
The rest of the appointment was a blur of twin-related information, as I learned I was carrying fraternal twins, each with their own placenta. I hurriedly texted Mark, urging him to call me ASAP.
His response: “I will. Is everything okay?”
Mine: “You tell me…”
When I got home, I unloaded my shock on my best friend, surrounded by our three little ones. Just moments ago, she had reassured me that managing two under two was possible, and now I was facing the reality of having three children under two years old. How could we handle this?
As the days passed, we shared the news with family and a few close friends. Their excitement and suggestions began to lift our spirits. We realized we could do this. It was still surreal and overwhelming, but plans started to form.
However, the day before Lily’s first birthday, I woke up to bleeding. I had been told that bleeding was common in twin pregnancies, yet when I contacted the clinic, the midwife insisted I come in immediately for a check-up. Mark was home this time, but Lily was napping. We weighed our options and ultimately decided I should go alone.
Once again, I found myself alone with the technician and the ultrasound probe. When I drove home, the reality hit me—I was now only carrying one healthy baby. The doctors were compassionate, explaining that many twin pregnancies begin with two but don’t end that way. They reassured me that Baby A could still be carried to term, but how does one process such loss?
I felt a deep sadness over the loss of my second baby, yet I remained very much pregnant with Baby A. This created a profound internal conflict that lingers in my thoughts. I often think of Willow, my lost twin. I ponder how she might have shaped her sister’s personality, or how different our family dynamics would be had she been born alongside Lily.
Willow’s existence is intricately woven into my memories of the pregnancy. In every ultrasound, Baby B was measured until she faded from view. After my first miscarriage, I felt a definitive emptiness—it was over. But with the loss of Baby B, she remained a part of me, embedded in my experience and in Lily’s life.
I struggled to find others who shared a similar experience. I knew people who had lost twins entirely or had “vanishing twins,” but my situation—losing one twin while still being pregnant—was rare. When I shared my story in an online group, a woman reached out; her twin pregnancy had ended similarly. We’ve connected periodically since then, and while she has since welcomed twins, the feelings of loss remain.
As Lily grows, we plan to share her story with her, explaining how she began her journey as a twin. It’s a part of who she is—a missing piece of her story. We cherish our family of four and feel complete, not longing for a third child simply because we once anticipated being a family of five.
Yet, two years later, the memory of that loss remains with me. It’s a feeling that will likely always stay.