My breath came out in a broken sob.
“Let me see her. Please.”
“It’s a girl,” the midwife confirmed.
She wrapped my daughter quickly in a warm, soft blanket — then walked toward me carefully.
“Hold her.”
My arms lifted automatically.
She placed the baby onto my chest.
Skin to skin.
The moment her weight settled against me —
Everything shattered.
She was warm.
Alive.
Wriggling.
Real.
Her tiny chest rose and fell rapidly against my heartbeat.
Her cries slowly softened into small hiccupping whimpers as she instinctively searched for warmth.
For comfort.
For me.
I wrapped my arms around her immediately — holding her like the most precious thing in existence.
Because she was.
She smelled like life.
A mixture of newborn sweetness, amniotic fluid, and something uniquely hers.
My trembling fingers traced her face.
The delicate button nose.
The soft rosebud mouth.
Her eyelashes — dark and clumped with fluid — fluttered slightly as she adjusted to the light.
Her skin was impossibly smooth.
Fragile.
Perfect.
Tears poured freely now — no restraint left.
