I delivered my twins far too early on a cold, fragile morning. My daughter arrived first—tiny but fierce. My son followed minutes later, struggling to breathe, his skin a bluish-purple. Standing beside his incubator, I whispered prayers, terrified I was already losing him.
Then a young nurse rushed in, acting on instinct. She carefully lifted my son from the wires, wrapped him in warm blankets, and placed him beside his sister. The room seemed to hold its breath. My daughter stretched her tiny arm over him, and he shivered, then inhaled deeply. The monitors steadied, slowly but surely.
The nurse explained that some hospitals practice “co-bedding” for premature twins to regulate breathing, temperature, and heart rate—but she admitted she’d never seen a reaction like this. My son had needed his sister.
Day by day, they grew stronger together. Nurses, doctors, and visitors often paused to watch them sleep curled side by side. Their bond became undeniable—they soothed each other, felt each other’s emotions, and seemed to know when the other needed comfort.
People ask me if I believe in miracles. I do—but not the kind you see in movies. Sometimes miracles are small: a nurse’s instinct, a sister’s touch, a shared breath that brings life back. Love saved my son. And that truth has shaped everything that came after.
