The tiny baby sleeps soundly inside a transparent incubator. Her eyes remain closed, her lips gently pressed together in a peaceful expression—almost a smile. The soft, steady rhythm of her breathing is marked by the regular beeping of the monitor beside her. Her delicate red skin is wrapped in the tiniest clothes and blanket, carefully arranged to preserve every bit of warmth she needs.
With my thumb, I stroke the impossibly soft skin on the back of her hand, as gently as I can. But even that slight touch stirs her. Her tiny fingers, which have been loosely wrapped around my index finger, twitch and curl tighter, as if reluctant to let go. I freeze—breath held—as if even the faintest exhale might disturb her again.
She shifts her lips, murmuring a little protest, then turns her head slightly and slips back into sleep.
I release my breath silently, my chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. I don't touch her again. Instead, I simply look at her—memorizing her face, tracing every perfect feature with my eyes. This little miracle... less than half an hour ago, she was inside her mother's womb. Now she's here. Here. After being cleaned, fed, and checked, she's finally tucked into this tiny box, fast asleep.
Sophie Bennet. My daughter.
I've been planning her life from the moment I chose to be with her mother. For five months straight, I envisioned everything. She would sleep between us for her first two years, then we'd move to a two-bedroom apartment so she could start sleeping on her own. Every night, we'd take turns reading her bedtime stories. No gadgets before school. I'd already shortlisted the best private schools in NY city—and even top universities based on different majors. We'd have family rituals like Wednesday Date-Nights—where she'd go out with me or Jen, just the two of us. We'd have "Sophie's Breakfasts," where she gets to pick the menu for the day. I even wrote down a list of questions and tasks for any boy who wanted to date her.
So many things I've planned.
And yet... there's so much I never planned.
I didn't plan for her to survive in her comatose mother's womb for nearly two months, sustained by chemical nutrients. I didn't plan for her to be born premature. I didn't plan for her first nourishment to come from a syringe instead of Jen's breast. I didn't plan for her to be born just five minutes before her mother was wheeled into surgery, fighting for her life.
And I definitely, absolutely didn't plan to raise her alone.
My throat tightens. My hand instinctively tightens its grip on her fingers.
No. No. No. I won't accept that future. I won't allow it to happen. Please—don't let that happen.
"Eeeeeeeeeee!!!"
Her sudden wail slices through the silence, jerking me out of my spiraling thoughts.
"Gosh! Sorry... sorry, baby... I'm sorry," I whisper, realizing I disturbed her. I try to soothe her with soft words and gentle sounds, but she only cries louder. Her tiny face turns a deep red—almost purple.
Panicking, I pull my hand away from the incubator.
She wails even louder.
"Nurse! Help—help! What… what's wrong with her?!?!" I shout, my voice cracking in panic as I sprint out of the nursery, searching desperately for someone—anyone—who can help.
A woman in scrubs hurries over. She follows me quickly back into the room.
"Please help..." I beg, breathless.
"Relax, Sir..." she says gently, her voice steady and calm, like a balm to my chaos. She approaches the incubator swiftly but without panic, unlocking the cover and reaching in with practiced care. In one smooth motion, she lifts Sophie from the box and cradles her against her chest.
"Pssst... Pssst... Good girl. You're just startled, aren't you?" she whispers, swaying softly. Within seconds, Sophie's cries settle into tiny hiccups… then vanish altogether.
"There you go, baby girl… yes… it's okay… it's okay… go back to sleep now."
I stand there, stunned.
Just moments ago, she was wailing with such force, her face turning a terrifying shade of blue, and now... she's melting into sleep like nothing ever happened. My chest is still heaving, but she's so still, so serene.
"Is she okay?" I ask, still shaking, my voice barely a whisper.
The nurse gives me a kind smile. "She's fine, Sir. Just startled, that's all," she says softly.
"But her face… it turned blue," I say, the memory of it still frozen in my mind.
"It's normal," she assures me. "Her systems aren't fully developed yet. When she cries too hard, the blood rushes to her face. It'll fade with time."
"It won't hurt her?"
She shakes her head. "No, Sir. It looks scary, but it's harmless."
I finally exhale. A real breath. My muscles unclench.
"Okay…"
The nurse begins to shift Sophie back toward the incubator.
"Wait… can I… can I hold her? Just for a bit?" I ask, the words catching in my throat.
When she nods, I step closer.
She guides me gently, positioning Sophie into my arms—her head resting perfectly in the center of my palm, her tiny body cradled along my forearm.
"Good. You're a natural, Sir," she says with a soft smile.
Sophie stirs in my arms, then lets out a soft whimper.
"Why… why is she—she doesn't like me?" I stammer, the whimper unraveling all my confidence.
"No, Sir. She just feels your tension. You need to calm down."
As if on cue, Sophie begins to cry again—softly at first, then louder. My panic surges.
"I—I'm sorry," I murmur and quickly hand her back. The moment she's in the nurse's arms, Sophie quiets down again.
"She can feel your heart, Sir," the nurse explains gently. "When you're restless, so is she."
I cover my face with my hands and breathe deeply, trying to wrestle myself out of the storm in my chest.
"Do you know anything about the surgery?" I ask her, desperate for a distraction. "Is it done yet? Does she… does Jennifer survive?"
The nurse shakes her head. "I don't know, Sir," she replies softly while tucking Sophie back into the incubator.
I pace. Back and forth. Again and again. The motion is meant to calm me, but it only winds me tighter with every step. My hands tremble. My jaw clenches.
"Let her sleep, Sir," the nurse says when she sees me reaching toward the incubator again.
I hesitate… then pull back.
"Okay," I whisper.
I force my hands into the pockets of my jeans and resume pacing. But the restless rhythm just feeds my anxiety. I finally stop and drop to the floor in front of Sophie's incubator, sinking onto my knees. I press my hands over my mouth, leaning forward, my eyes fixed on her sleeping face.
She looks so peaceful. So perfect. Her tiny chest rising and falling like a steady tide. And yet… the storm inside me won't calm.
That thought creeps in again—cold and unwanted.
What if I have to raise her alone?
I close my eyes, too heavy to keep them open, too afraid to let them close.
Please… just don't let her die.