The room breathed softly with the hum of machines and the careful steps of nurses. I sat between two incubators, staring through the clear glass at my newborn twins. They had arrived too early, so small it hurt to look at them. My daughter grew stronger by the hour, her tiny fingers curling with quiet determination. My son struggled more. The doctors spoke gently, offering reassurance, but worry stayed lodged in my chest. I whispered promises to both babies, telling them they were loved and never alone.
As the hours passed, exhaustion pressed down on me. My eyes stayed fixed on my son, whose fragile movements seemed to slow. I held my breath during every still moment, begging for signs of strength. Memories of pregnancy rushed back—dreams of two cribs, two futures, a shared life. Sitting there, helpless, I wished I could give him my own strength. Tears slipped down, not from despair, but from a love too deep for words.
