The hallway to the NICU felt longer than it should have been.
Too quiet.
Too bright.
Too clean.
A place designed for hope, but all I felt was fear pressing into my lungs like a hand squeezing too tightly.
The nurse walked ahead of me, speaking in a soft, measured tone — the kind people used when they weren't sure if the person beside them was seconds away from collapsing.
"She's in stable condition for her size," she explained. "Her breathing is shallow at times, but she's responding well. We placed her in an incubator to keep her temperature regulated. She's small, but very strong."
Strong.
That word hit me harder than it should have.
My daughter - our daughter - born fighting because the world didn't know how to leave us alone.
When we stepped into the NICU, everything blurred for a moment.
Not the machines.
Not the nurses.
Not even the tiny cries from the other infants.
Just the sight of her.
My little girl.
