But this, this waiting while the two people I love most fight for their lives, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
The doors open again, and this time it’s Dr. Chen. Her surgical mask hangs around her neck, and there’s blood on her scrubs. My blood turns to ice.
“Mr. Artyomov.” She walks toward me, and I search her face desperately for clues. Is that relief in her eyes? Or pity?
“Tell me.” The words come out strangled. “Tell me they’re alive.”
“Mother and baby are both doing well.” The words wash over me like a wave, and my knees nearly buckle. “Your wife came through the surgery beautifully. She’s in recovery now.”
“And the baby?” Tony asks when I can’t seem to form words.
“Your daughter is premature, but she’s healthy. Strong lungs, good color, all her vitals are stable.” Dr. Chen’s smile is genuine. “She’s small, only four pounds, but she’s a fighter. Just like her mother.”
A daughter. I have a daughter.
The reality hits me with the force of a physical blow. I’m a father. Sophia is alive. Our baby is alive. We made it through.
“Can I see them?” My voice cracks on the question.
“Your wife is still in recovery, but I can take you to see your daughter now. She’s in the NICU.”
I follow Dr. Chen through a maze of corridors, barely registering Tony and Melinda trailing behind me. The NICU is quieter than I expected, filled with the soft beeps of monitors and the gentle whoosh of ventilators.
Dr. Chen leads me to an incubator in the corner. “Here she is.”
I step closer, and my breath catches.
She’s so small.
Impossibly small, with tubes and wires attached to her tiny body. But she’s perfect.
Dark hair, just like Sophia’s.
Her eyes are closed, her little fists curled against her chest.
As I watch, she yawns, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
“You can touch her,” a nurse says gently. “Through the ports in the incubator.”
I wash my hands, and they shake as I reach through the opening, my finger brushing against her palm.
Her tiny fingers curl around mine instinctively, and I’m lost.
Completely, utterly lost to this tiny person who’s only been in the world for a few minutes.
“Hello, little one,” I whisper. “I’m your papa. And I promise you, I’m going to give you everything. Safety, love, a world where you never have to be afraid.”
She makes a small sound, and I feel tears tracking down my face. I don’t bother wiping them away.
Two hours later, they move Sophia to a private room.
I’m already there waiting, our daughter cradled carefully in my arms.
The nurses showed me how to hold her, how to support her head, how to be gentle with her fragile body.
Sophia looks pale against the white sheets, but her eyes are open. When she sees me holding our baby, her face transforms with joy and relief.
“Is she okay?” Her voice is hoarse from the anesthesia.
