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.
The girl, small yet undeniably strong, reacted almost instantly. Her arm twitched, then stretched out until it rested across her brother’s chest. The boy, who had been frighteningly still, gave the faintest shudder. A second breath followed. Then another. The monitors, which had been dropping steadily, flickered uncertainly as if reconsidering their verdict. The nurse didn’t speak; she simply stood guard, encouraging the moment with her presence. It was the first time my twins had been reunited since birth, and the sight of them nestled together felt like witnessing a miracle unfolding in slow motion. I didn’t understand the science behind it, but I understood love—and this looked a lot like love being returned.
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