I made this fiction because it is Annie who tells her story.
After Ma died, her best friend Ann told me the baby was placed in my mother's arms and buried with her. At seven, I never questioned why I did not see the baby; I believed whatever I was told. A few years later, Dad, after a few drinks and feeling melancholy, told me the truth. He prayed and begged God that Ma would recover, and when he was told she had died, he broke down. The doctors came to him and asked for the stillborn baby to find out how the baby died. He said he was in a state of shock and gave them permission. This night a few years later, he regretted his decision.
I dreamed of Little Annie floating in a specimen jar that night.
While this happened decades ago, I now understand Ma's recovery was impossible, but Dad and, most likely, the doctors at the time did not quite understand that the severity of the massive stroke left her with minimal brain function.

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