On the other end of the line, silence — then panic. My husband dropped everything. He drove to the hospital like a man chasing time itself, each red light a curse, each mile a prayer.
By the time he arrived, hours had passed. He waited outside the delivery room, his hands shaking, his mind replaying every call he had ignored, every word he wished he could take back. He thought it was too late.
But instead of bad news, the doctor led him to a quiet recovery room.
A Second Chance
I was there, sitting upright, exhausted but alive, holding our newborn daughter in my arms.
He froze at the doorway, disbelief etched across his face. Then his knees gave way, and tears came — not from grief, but from the sheer relief that life had given him a second chance.
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