had succumbed to the unrelenting pressure and anguish that haunted her in those early postpartum days. The weight of her suffering was more than she could bear alone, and without warning, the world had become too heavy a burden for her. Alongside her, in the second coffin, lay her newborn son, Avi, whose life ended before it had truly begun. The news shattered our existence, rendering us hollow shadows of our former selves.
In the days following their deaths, an unbearable heaviness settled over us, like a suffocating fog that refused to lift. I replayed the calls in my mind over and over, my daughter’s voice etched into my memory like a haunting refrain. Her cries for help echoed relentlessly, a constant reminder of my inaction, and the what-ifs tormented me relentlessly. What if I had acted sooner? What if I had defied tradition and rescued her from the silent torment she endured?
