She stands beside the incubator, her eyes fixed on her tiny little boy.
I’ve offered her a chair but she knows that if she sits down she won’t be able to keep her eyes open, so exhausted is she from her almost constant vigil at her baby’s side. The only time she’s left the room is to go and express breast milk, clinging to the hope that one day her baby will be strong enough and well enough to drink it.
Despite her exhaustion she doesn’t want to sleep because she knows that this could be the last day, these the last hours and minutes and even seconds that she has to commit each and every detail of him to her memory.
She doesn’t have those lazy mornings and those soft, sleepy hours in the middle of the night when there is just you and your baby and you have…
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