The next weeks were the hardest of my life.
All nine babies were premature and fragile, each no bigger than my hand. They were placed in incubators, surrounded by wires and soft beeping machines.
I spent hours beside them, whispering prayers and pressing my palms against the glass. “Keep fighting,” I told them. “Mommy’s here.”
The doctors called them miracles. The nurses cried the first time they heard their tiny cries. People across the state sent donations. Newspapers wrote about The Miracle Carters.
Two months later, Dr. Harrison smiled for the first time in weeks. “They’re strong enough to go home,” he said.
The day we brought them home, sunlight filled the nursery. We had three cribs, each one holding three babies. Daniel looked around and laughed through tears. “Three in each crib,” he said. “Not bad for new parents.”
I smiled, but my heart ached a little. “It still feels like one of them is missing,” I whispered.
Daniel wrapped his arm around me. “Maybe not missing,” he said softly. “Just part of the reason we appreciate the nine we have.”
And he was right.
