In the end, we chose what mattered most: the girls.

Junie and Lizzy were sisters, and nothing would change that again.

We slowly learned to share time, memories, and motherhood in a way none of us ever imagined. The girls grew close instantly, laughing together as if they had always belonged side by side.

One afternoon at the park, both of them sat beside me eating rainbow ice cream, arguing about who invented popcorn in ice-cream cones. I snapped a photo with the little disposable camera that had started everything.

I could never get back the six years I lost.

But from that moment forward, every memory with my daughters belonged to us—and no one would ever take another day away again.