They brought Ezio briefly—tiny, screaming. I touched his hand.
"Hi, baby. Mama's here."
Then Eva, oxygen mask on. Eyes open.
"Hi, sweet girl."
They whisked both to the NICU.
Two hours later, they finally wheeled me to the NICU.
The sight stole my breath.
Two isolettes side by side, medical equipment surrounding each like protective fortresses. Inside, impossibly tiny humans—our children, so small they barely seemed real.
Ezio on the left, squirming despite the wires attached to his chest, little fists punching at the air like he was already fighting the world. His dark hair was damp, plastered to his head, and even through the plastic I could see his expression—serious, determined, furious at being born early.
So much like his father already.
Eva on the right, quieter, smaller, oxygen mask covering most of her tiny face. But her eyes were open—dark and alert, trackingmovement around her isolette. Her little chest rose and fell with mechanical assistance, but she was breathing. Fighting.
"You can touch them," the NICU nurse said gently—her name tag read "Sarah. "Through the isolette ports. Skin contact is good for premature babies—it helps regulate their temperature, their breathing, everything. Let them know you're here."
My hands shook as I slipped them through the openings.
Ezio's skin felt impossibly soft, warm from the isolette's controlled environment. I traced his tiny arm with one finger, careful not to disturb the IV line taped to his hand.
"Hi, baby boy," I whispered, voice breaking. "It's Mama. You're doing so well. So strong and brave."
His little hand opened, closed around my finger with surprising strength. The grip was firm, determined, like he was holding on with everything he had.
"He knows you," Nurse Sarah said, smiling. "Babies always know their mothers."
Tears streamed down my face. "He's so tiny."
"Five pounds is actually a good size for thirty-four-week twins. Most are smaller." She checked his monitors. "And his oxygen saturation is excellent—ninety-eight percent on room air. That's excellent. He's breathing completely on his own. That's remarkable for his gestational age."
"Really?" Hope flickered in my chest.
"Really. Your son is a fighter." She adjusted his blanket. "He'll probably go home before his sister. Boys tend to mature faster in the womb and have fewer respiratory issues."
I moved to Eva's isolette, heart clenching at how much smaller she looked. Four pounds, nine ounces. The oxygen mask covered half her face, but her eyes—those beautiful dark eyes—watched me steadily.
"Hi, sweet girl," I whispered, touching her even tinier hand. "It's Mama. I'm so sorry you had to come early. But you're doing so well. Keep fighting, okay?"
Eva's fingers twitched against mine. Not a full grip like her brother's, but acknowledgment. Connection.
"She's having a bit more trouble," Nurse Sarah said honestly. "The CPAP is helping her breathe, giving her lungs support while they finish developing. It's very common with preemie girls—they mature a little slower than boys. But look—her heart rate is strong, her color is good. She's stable."
"How long will she need the breathing support?"
"Hard to say. Could be days, could be a couple of weeks. Every baby is different." She smiled. "Talk to her. Let her hear your voice. It helps premature babies stabilize faster when they hear their parents."
So I did. Told Eva about the nursery we'd painted yellow, about the books we'd read to her through my belly, about how much her daddy and I already loved her. My voice shook with tears, but I kept talking, kept touching her tiny hand, willing her to be strong.
Alessio stood beside me, one hand in each isolette, touching both our children simultaneously.
"Hi, Eva. Hi, Ezio," he said, voice rough. "It's Daddy. We're right here. We're not going anywhere. You just focus on getting stronger, okay? We'll be here every single day."
