I walked home from the library like usual. I walked with Robyn but their house is much closer to the library than mine. I checked my watch. It was about six thirty in the afternoon. That was the earliest I left with Robyn. We would have stayed till about seven or eight, but they had a stomach bug or something. I had time to at least finish my homework with them. We were in the same classes, even though I was two years younger than them.

When I walked inside, my mom greeted me. “How was school and your library date?” my mom asked. “It’s not a date if we do our homework together but they both were great,” I said. “Yeah it was a date if you go with one of your lovers darling,” my mom said. She kissed me on the cheek. “How are you feeling, mom?” I asked. "I’m doing great, my boy. So are the twins,” she responded, rubbing her stomach. “Great. I’m going to put this in my room and come down and you cook dinner,” I said. “Alright dear. I’ll be-” she said, followed by screams. “Mom?” I asked. I looked over to her. She was holding her stomach. “Mom?!” I shouted, running off the stairs. I went over to her. “My wat-water broke,” she said, smiling before fainting in my arms. She had always looked happy. My father ran down the stairs, looking terrified. “Her water broke! Call help!” I shouted. My voice was cracking in fear and sadness. “Now!” I shouted again, starting to cry profusely.

That’s when I lost her. One of the most important women in my life. I was 17 years old and I had watched my mom slowly dying in my arms. She had passed while giving birth to the twins. They warned her, but my mother wanted to have them. The doctors had me in the room when she gave birth. I was holding her hand. I was there, watching her die. Her last words were to me. She was crying but smiling at me when she spoke. They were, “Tell your son, Gregory, that grandma loves him. Tell your daughter, Robin, that grandma loves her. I love you, my dear. We will meet again soon.” Her eyes then slowly closed as her vitals dropped. The doctors tried everything they could, but she was gone. She was gone too soon. She passed away on April 14 at 9:08 p.m. at the age of 33.

At the hospital, my brothers and father stood there. I was still crying. “Man up, boy and tell us the news,” my father said. “You are an emotionless bastard. She’s dead,” I said to him. My brothers’ faces had dropped. My father’s did, too. “No… impossible,” he said, falling to his knees. I said nothing. “You’re lying,” he said. “I’m afraid he is correct sir,” said the doctor, “Your wife is indeed dead but your twins are alive.” My father looked up at the doctor, tears running down his face. “No…No! Marisol…” he said, crying into his hands. “I’m sorry for your loss,” the doctor said.

The funeral was tragic. The doctor had thankfully preserved her blood and gave it to me. She had told them to do it before her last words. She wanted me to have her blood for something. I didn’t know at the time. They always preserved her vital organs with my father’s permission. She wrote it down and my father signed it. He wanted what she wanted. It was her body after all. She was such a caring person. She knew that she wanted to give her organs to people in need. We cremated her and buried the urn. We even planted her favorite tree in her honor. She loved everything about nature. I grew up loving it as well. She always had different types of flowers in her long dark red hair. She looked just like she did when she first met my dad nineteen years ago. I loved her so much, just to watch her drift away from my reach like a leaf in a river on a windy day.