Later that night, I stood in the NICU, looking down at my son.
Small.
Fragile.
Fighting.
A nurse adjusted his blanket.
“He’s strong,” she said gently.
I nodded.
“So is his mother.”
When I returned to Sarah’s room, she was awake.
I sat beside her and took her hand.
“I found it,” I said.
She searched my face.
“And?”
I exhaled slowly.
“It’s complicated.”
A faint, tired smile.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I figured.”
I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“But we’ll handle it,” I said. “Together.”
Her fingers tightened around mine.
And for the first time since that night began, the room didn’t feel like it was falling apart.
It felt like something—fragile, painful, but real—was beginning to hold.
