She flipped the baby gently onto her side and began rubbing her back firmly with a warm sterile blanket.
“Come on, little one,” she murmured under her breath again.
“Breathe for us.”
Another nurse leaned in and carefully suctioned the baby’s mouth and nose, clearing fluid from her tiny airway.
The seconds stretched.
Slow.
Cruel.
Each passing moment felt like a knife twisting inside my chest.
My fingers trembled uselessly at my sides.
“Please,” I whispered.
“Please let her be okay.”
The room seemed to hold its breath with me.
Then —
A sound.
Thin.
Small.
Defiant.
A cry.
It started as a fragile squeak — almost like a protest — and then strengthened.
Her tiny chest jerked.
Her arms flailed.
Her legs kicked weakly in response to stimulation.
Color flooded back into her skin — pink replacing the blue tint that had terrified me seconds ago.
The nurses’ tense expressions transformed instantly.
Relief washed over them.
Smiles broke through.
“There she is!” the midwife laughed softly.
“Strong lungs on this one.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Oh my God...”
