By Bobbie Jackson
Mommy to Everhett (stillborn) and Avery (surviving twin)
2023
I had told everyone I’ve ever known that when I had children, my first babies would be twins — and that’s exactly what happened. Even though I was a single mom preparing to welcome two babies into the world, I knew I could give them the life I always dreamed for them. They were going to grow up as best friends — because they already were. In every ultrasound, they were wrapped around each other, facing each other, mimicking everything the other did.
I had a regular weekly ultrasound scheduled around 8 a.m. on a Monday at 37.5 weeks pregnant. I was excited — especially when they told me that Avery Jane had visible hair in utero. But when it came time to check on my son, Everhett Leigh, my world completely shattered.
Hearing the words “your son no longer has a heartbeat” is the most gut-wrenching, earth-shattering, painfully real statement any parent can be told. Just days before, on Thursday, both babies had been measuring and moving perfectly. But by Monday, my son was gone. By 4 p.m. that same day, both of my twins were born via emergency C-section — along with an ovarian tumor that weighed and measured more than both of the babies combined.
Doctors discovered a blood clot in Everhett’s umbilical cord, but ultimately, it didn’t matter how or why it happened. My twins are miracles.
I had always dreamed of a perfect birth story: my parents and my babies’ father in the room, watching as I delivered two healthy, beautiful babies. But it didn’t play out that way. Their dad hadn’t been in the picture for months. My parents were there, though — and my dad was the one who cut their umbilical cords.
Everhett Leigh’s death has changed everything for my daughter and for our family. It’s incredibly hard to watch our survivor, Avery Jane, hit every milestone — to celebrate her birthdays (she just turned two) — while knowing he isn’t here. There’s so much joy, but also an overwhelming sense of guilt.
There’s always a feeling that something — or someone — is missing. Sometimes it hits like a wave. Other times it’s more subtle, like that nagging sense of “I’m forgetting something.” But I’m not. I’m remembering someone: my son.
I hope that, in time, I won’t be afraid of the future. I hope Avery Jane grows up to do amazing things. I hope one day I can forgive myself for Everhett’s death, and stop fearing what’s ahead. I hope Everhett is watching us from Heaven, knowing how deeply he is loved — and that he is never forgotten.
The photographs On Angel’s Wings gave us mean the world. They are such a blessing. I never thought I’d be able to see my son’s face again, or have a reason to celebrate him. But because of On Angel’s Wings — we can.
They’ve been there for us, not just as an organization but as a true support system. Whether you need a friend, a safe space, or a way to remember and honor your child — On Angel’s Wings is there. We’ve been to the Recipient Picnic where they hold a butterfly release to honor Everhett. They celebrate your baby. They create lasting memories. They offer care unlike anyone else. And I don’t know where I’d be without them.
