My wife died giving birth to our rainbow baby. He arrived at just 26 weeks, barely two pounds, fighting for every breath. I collapsed in the hospital hallway, sobbing, convinced I’d lost everything in one night.
An elderly nurse I’d never seen before wrapped her arms around me and whispered, “Don’t give up. Your baby needs you.” Those words became my lifeline.
Three years later, I was back at the same hospital for my son’s check-up, now a healthy, laughing toddler. In the corridor stood that same nurse, older now, cradling a newborn against her chest.
She smiled through tears when she recognized me. The tiny baby in her arms wore the same premature diaper my son once did.
“She’s my granddaughter,” she said softly. “Born last night at 25 weeks. The doctors said she might not make it.” Then she placed the infant in my arms and added, “Hold her the way someone once held you together.”
I looked down at that fragile new life and felt the circle close. The arms that caught me when I was breaking were now asking me to help hold someone else together.
I whispered the only words that mattered: “Don’t give up. Your baby needs you.”
