That some things might be harder.
Then the doctor looked at me and said:
“But he is not a diagnosis. He is your child.”
I covered my face and cried.
Because that was the first sentence that felt like truth.
Then the nurse brought him in.
My son.
My little boy.
Wrapped in the same white blanket.
His eyes were closed. His cheeks were soft. His tiny lips moved in his sleep.
The nurse placed him in my arms.
This time, I did not just touch him.
I held him.
I pulled him close to my chest and sobbed into his blanket.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. Mommy got scared. Mommy listened to the wrong voice.”
He made a small sound.
Barely anything.
But to me, it felt like an answer.
I kissed his forehead.
No one clapped.
No one took pictures.
No one said it was a perfect moment.
