I gave birth to premature twins. One of them, a girl, was quickly improving. Another one, a boy, was dying, his skin turning purple and his breath declining. I cried beside the incubator, looking at him for one last time. Suddenly, a young nurse stormed in, tore him from the wires and shoved him gently against her chest as if she had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. At first, I thought grief had blurred my understanding of what I was seeing, but her calm determination left no room for doubt. She wrapped him in a warm blanket, humming softly as she carried him toward his sister’s incubator. The room fell into a hush as she placed the fading boy beside his thriving twin, positioning them so their tiny bodies touched. It looked like such a simple gesture—almost too simple to change anything—but something deep inside me stirred with hope I didn’t dare to voice aloud.
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