She was a tiny girl—seven pounds, two ounces—born on a cold Friday morning in February at the general hospital.
I held her for exactly eleven minutes.
I remember counting each one. I pressed her delicate fingers against my chest and tried to memorize everything: the warmth of her skin, the quiet rhythm of her breathing, the weight of her in my arms. When you know something is about to be taken from you, you cling to every second.
Outside the room, my parents were waiting.
They had already made the decision.