Eight months pregnant, I recognized the frightening signs that something was seriously wrong and called my parents, desperate for help. My mother only sighed. “We’ve been planning this vacation for months. We’re not canceling it over this.” They boarded their flight without hesitation, leaving me to face a medical emergency on my own.

Later that evening, a nurse wheeled me past the neonatal unit. Tiny infants rested beneath transparent covers, each one fighting to grow stronger.

I placed my hand over my stomach.

My daughter kicked gently.

“You will never have to beg anyone to love you,” I whispered.

And for the first time since Daniel’s death, I realized I was also saying it to myself.continue reading …