The weight of a tiny body against her chest, the cold fear climbing her spine, the question that never stopped haunting her. How does a woman continue living after believing she has buried her own child.
Rebecca was twenty five years old, born in a fading industrial town in western Pennsylvania where factories had closed and hope had followed them. She arrived in New York with one suitcase borrowed from a cousin, a heart bruised by grief, and a need so sharp it hurt to breathe. Six weeks earlier she had given birth to a baby girl who lived only a few hours.
