The last thing I remember was the midwife saying, “One more push, sweetheart.” Then everything just… faded. No cries. No skin-to-skin. No “It’s a boy!”
Next thing I knew, I was blinking at the ceiling of an unfamiliar room, my throat raw, tubes everywhere, and a nurse holding my hand like she’d been doing it for a while. I could barely move, but I could hear. And the first thing I heard was, “You’ve been asleep for two weeks.”
Two weeks.
They told me later it was a rare complication—a hemorrhage they couldn’t control, my blood pressure crashing, organs shutting down. They had to put me in a medically induced coma to stabilize me. Luis had to choose between staying by my side or following our baby to the NICU.
He did both. Somehow.
When they finally told me the whole story, I couldn’t believe it. I had missed everything. I hadn’t seen my son’s first moments, heard his first cries, or even held him in my arms. I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel. Part of me was angry—angry at the situation, angry that I was robbed of those first precious moments. But then, there was guilt. Guilt that my body had failed me, that I hadn’t been there for him when he needed me the most.
The nurse squeezed my hand gently, her eyes warm. “Your son is doing well. He’s been strong, just like his mom. You’re both lucky to have each other.”
I tried to smile, but it felt like my face wasn’t working the way it should. I could barely focus on what she was saying. I wanted to see my son. I wanted to meet him, to make up for the time we had lost. But my body wasn’t quite ready. The doctor said I needed to rest more before I could leave the bed. I didn’t want to hear that. All I could think about was the baby I hadn’t seen.
Luis arrived an hour later, looking exhausted, his eyes heavy with the weight of the last two weeks. When he walked in, the first thing he did was sit beside me, take my hand, and kiss my forehead. I could feel his relief just from the touch. He looked at me like I had returned from some distant place.
“I’ve been so scared, Mia,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I didn’t know if you were going to make it. I thought I was going to lose you.”
I could hear the strain in his voice, the months of worry finally spilling out. I squeezed his hand, trying to comfort him, though I didn’t feel whole myself.
“I’m here,” I whispered. “I’m here.”
He smiled, but it was a smile tinged with sadness. “I’m so proud of you. You’re the strongest woman I know. But the baby… he’s waiting for you. He’s been asking for you.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but hearing him say those words filled me with a mix of joy and fear. What kind of mother had I been, to miss out on these first moments with my son?
Luis led me to the NICU after I’d gathered enough strength. The nurses cleared the way for us, and as we approached the incubator, I saw him—my son. He was tiny, fragile, with tubes and wires attached to him, but even through the confusion of the machines and the sterile hospital setting, I could see his little face. My heart twisted with love. I wanted to pick him up, to hold him close and never let him go, but all I could do was watch, helpless, as the nurse adjusted his breathing tube.
“This is Lucas,” the nurse said softly, her hand on my shoulder. “He’s been through a lot, but he’s strong. He knows his mom is here now.”
I had expected to feel an overwhelming surge of love, but instead, I felt like a stranger to him. His tiny eyes barely opened, and I knew it would be a while before he’d recognize me. I had no connection to him, no bond, nothing like the stories I’d heard about new mothers meeting their babies. It was as if my son had been born into a world without me, and I was just now walking into it.
As days passed, I stayed by his side whenever I could, but it didn’t feel like enough. I wanted to be the mother I had always imagined I would be. I wanted to be the one who could comfort him, the one who could soothe him when he cried. But every time I reached out to touch him, I hesitated. The guilt was suffocating.
One afternoon, after a particularly long stretch of sitting quietly by his incubator, I started talking to him, not really expecting any response.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to him, tears falling down my cheeks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you were born. I don’t know how to make up for that, but I promise I’m going to be the best mom I can be. I’ll never leave you again.”
As if on cue, Lucas’ tiny hand curled into a fist and reached out toward mine. I gasped, feeling the tiniest spark of connection between us, and I reached out to take his hand. It was the most real moment I’d had with him since waking up. The nurse, who had been standing nearby, smiled gently.
“That’s the start of it,” she said. “He knows you’re here. He knows you love him.”
It wasn’t much, but it was everything to me. It was the beginning of our bond. I didn’t need to catch up on the two weeks I had missed. I just needed to be there now.
In the following days, as Lucas grew stronger, so did I. My body healed, and I started to learn how to care for him. There were still moments of doubt—moments when I worried I wasn’t doing things right or when the guilt crept in again, reminding me of what I had missed. But each time, I looked at Lucas, and he looked back at me with his big brown eyes, and I knew I was doing okay.
Luis was there, too, every step of the way. He had been my rock, my constant. Together, we learned how to take care of our son. Together, we healed.
Months passed, and the NICU trips became less frequent. Lucas grew stronger, healthier, and more active. He started to smile, to giggle, to reach for me with his chubby little hands. I couldn’t believe how much he had changed in such a short time, and I couldn’t believe how much my heart had grown to fit all the love I felt for him.
And just when I thought everything was settling into place, we got a call from the doctor. The results from Lucas’s genetic test were in.
Luis and I had been nervous about the test—it was a standard procedure after his complicated birth—but neither of us expected what came next. The doctor’s voice on the other end of the line was calm, but the words hit us like a ton of bricks.
“Mr. and Mrs. Moreno, there seems to be something unusual in Lucas’s test results. I need to meet with you in person.”
We rushed to the doctor’s office, hearts pounding, but when we sat down across from him, we still had no idea what was coming.
“Your son’s results show that he has a condition we weren’t expecting. It’s rare, but we caught it early. It’s something that can be managed, but we need to keep an eye on it.”
Luis and I exchanged confused glances. “What kind of condition?” I asked.
“It’s a genetic disorder,” the doctor explained. “It affects his metabolism, but with the right treatment, he can live a full, healthy life.”
It felt like a weight had been lifted, but there was also a flood of relief. We had been given the chance to correct something that could have been worse, and we would do everything in our power to make sure Lucas had the best possible life.
That was the twist—the karmic shift in all of this. Through the turmoil, through the pain, we had been given a second chance, not only with Lucas but with our family. We learned to appreciate what we had in ways we never would have if everything had gone perfectly.
And so, as I stood over Lucas’s crib one night, watching him sleep peacefully, I realized something: the love I had for my son wasn’t measured by the time I missed with him. It was measured by the time I would have with him. And I was determined to make the most of every moment.
Sometimes, life doesn’t go as planned. Sometimes, we miss things or face challenges that we never saw coming. But in those moments, we learn. We grow. And we realize that the love we have is all we truly need.
Share this story with someone who needs to hear it. Because life is full of twists, but it’s how we handle them that defines us.
