She had tiny fingers, soft cheeks, and a little mouth that moved as though she were already trying to tell me something.
I began to cry.
“She’s beautiful,” I whispered.
The nurse smiled.
“What will you name her?”
I looked down at my daughter.
“Grace.”
Because somehow, after everything I had endured, I had been given a new beginning.
Daniel was not there.
He did not call to ask whether I had survived the delivery. He did not send money for the hospital. He did not ask whether his daughter was healthy.
For the first time, I stopped imagining what he might have done if he had loved me properly.
I focused on the person who was actually in my arms.
Grace became my reason to get out of bed on the hardest mornings.
When she cried through the night, I held her against my chest and sang to her. When I felt overwhelmed, I reminded myself that I did not have to be a perfect mother. I only had to keep showing up for her.
