When I first held my daughter in my arms, the world seemed to stop breathing with me.
The delivery room smelled like antiseptic, sweat, and exhaustion. Every muscle in my body trembled after nineteen hours of labor, but none of it mattered when the nurse placed the tiny bundle against my chest.
She was warm. So impossibly small.
A tuft of dark curls rested against her pink scalp, and her sleepy eyes fluttered open for barely a second before closing again. I touched her cheek with shaking fingers and felt tears spill down my face.
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