The call came in the dead of a March night. It was a neighbor, her voice frantic. Jessica's water had broken, weeks early, and the contractions were coming fast and hard. They were rushing her to the hospital.
Kian threw on his clothes, his heart hammering against his ribs. He arrived at the maternity ward to find a scene of controlled chaos. Jessica was being wheeled into delivery, her face pale and etched with pain. The doctors were concerned; the twins were in distress. 👶👶
He was left to pace the sterile, antiseptic-smelling hallway, each minute stretching into an eternity. He thought of his father's final plea, the weight of that promise feeling heavier than ever.
After what felt like a lifetime, a weary but smiling doctor emerged. "They're here. Both girls. They're small and will need to stay in the NICU for a while, but they're fighters. Your wife is resting." 😌
They're here. Kian was led to a glass window overlooking the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Inside two separate warmers, were his sisters. They were impossibly tiny, their skin almost translucent, with a fine dusting of dark hair on their heads. Wires and monitors were taped to their miniature bodies, but they were alive.
He placed a hand on the cool glass, a wave of overwhelming protectiveness washing over him. The grief for his father, the stress, the fight with Leo;it all faded into the background. In that moment, he was no longer just a college student or a grieving son. He was a brother. And he would make sure these two tiny fighters had everything they needed to thrive. 😵