Tomorrow, we go home.
That sentence feels almost surreal after the last week. A week of monitors and wires, of folding hospital blankets into makeshift pillows, of learning how to read expressions behind masks. A week of waiting rooms, alarms that made my heart skip, and tiny victories that meant everything.
Five days.
That’s how long we had before everything changed again.
Today, my daughter was born.
That sentence alone feels like it should come with an instruction manual, a warning label, and maybe a second cup of coffee. But no manual showed up. No voiceover. Just her, tiny and new, and me, standing at the beginning of something I can’t fully understand yet.
