The moment the doctor spoke those words, the air seemed to leave the room. My hands trembled, my chest tightened, and it felt as if the ground beneath me had vanished. “Devastated” doesn’t begin to describe it. In that instant, my world—our world—was suspended between hope and despair.
I looked at my sweet baby, so tiny, so perfect, and I couldn’t reconcile the thought that something might be wrong. How could this little soul, who had already brought us so much joy, be facing a struggle before he had even taken his first steps into life?
The only thought echoing again and again in my mind was, “Please don’t take him.” It was a silent plea to the universe, a desperate prayer I couldn’t stop whispering inside.
But even as fear pressed against me, something else took over. I didn’t cry—not because I wasn’t broken inside, but because love rose above the fear. When I looked at him, I didn’t see a diagnosis, I didn’t see uncertainty—I saw my baby boy. I saw the way his tiny lips curved when he dreamed, the way his fingers curled around mine with surprising strength, the way his presence filled a room with light.
In that moment, love was bigger than grief. Love was louder than fear. And love was the anchor that reminded me why I had to stay strong.