Placed immediately onto the warming table.
My throat tightened.
“Please...” I whispered.
“Please cry...”
The seconds stretched.
Too long. Too quiet.
My chest tightened in panic.
The nightmare was repeating itself.
My baby lay there — small, fragile, and still.
The medical team moved quickly.
The neonatal nurse stepped in.
Stimulation.
Suction.
Gentle rubbing.
Oxygen mask prepared.
“Come on, sweetheart,” the nurse murmured urgently.
“Breathe.”
My hands trembled.
Tears blurred my vision.
I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
“Is she...?”
My voice cracked apart.
The words barely left my throat.
Hot tears streamed down my face — blurring my vision so badly I could hardly see the tiny body on the warming table.
The midwife didn’t answer immediately.
She worked.
Fast.
Focused.
