Hospitals had a way of swallowing time. Hours dissolved into white walls, soft footsteps, and the steady beep of machines that seemed too calm for what was happening.
Mira hadn't opened her eyes yet.
Every minute she stayed still felt like a knife dragging through my ribs. But she was breathing, and for now, that was the thread holding me together.
Donna sat on one side of her bed, fingers threading through Mira's hair in long, soothing strokes. Her eyes were red, but her posture remained firm. She was a mother guarding another mother.
Roberto sat on the other side, head bowed, shoulders shaking every now and then when he thought no one noticed. He blamed himself. I didn't correct him. Not yet.
I stood at the foot of the bed, hands in my pockets because if I didn't keep them there, I'd break something. Or someone.
My daughter slept in the NICU, monitored closely. Too small to understand anything, too precious to ever know what was done to bring her into the world.
