The NICU carried a low, steady hum that seemed to live inside the walls. Machines breathed in rhythm. Monitors blinked in soft pulses. My daughter, Charlie, lay beneath a warmer that cast a pale glow across her skin. She was six weeks early and small enough for my hands to meet around her torso.
Read More“I’m done,” says Leigh, her voice full of defeat. But she’s angry. There’s always anger.
I heave a sigh, and my shoulders slump. “I think I am, too.”
My eyes are puffy and red, my nose feels like it’s clogged with cement. I need some Advil. And a drink.
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