But I could see the fear in his eyes.
We both knew how fragile life was.
Then one morning, after weeks of uncertainty, the doctor walked into the room with a smile.
“Rowan is improving.”
I covered my mouth.
“Really?”
“He’s stronger than we expected.
If everything continues this way, he may be able to go home soon.”
I cried so hard that the nurse hugged me.
A few days later, we finally brought our three sons home.
That day remains one of the happiest memories of my life.
I placed Rowan between his brothers.
Three tiny babies.
Three matching blankets.
Three little faces looking back at me.
I remember thinking:
This is what happiness feels like.
For the first time in years, I had everything I ever wanted.
But happiness can disappear in a moment.
And mine did.
Three months later, Rowan became sick.
At first, I thought it was just a normal illness.
Babies got sick.
Doctors told us not to panic.
But a mother knows when something is wrong.
I remember holding him that night.
His body felt different.
He was quieter.
Too quiet.
Daniel called the ambulance while I held our son against my chest.
The entire ride to the hospital felt unreal.
I kept whispering:
“Stay with me, baby.”
“Mommy is here.”
“Please stay.”
Doctors rushed him away.
Daniel held my shoulders while we waited.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
Then another.
And then the doctor walked toward us.
I knew before he spoke.
I knew from his face.
I collapsed before he even finished the sentence.
“I’m sorry.”
Two words.
Two words that destroyed my world.
Our son was gone.
My baby was gone.
The child I had fought so hard to have.
The child I had prayed for.
The child I had promised to protect.
Gone.
