The waiting room was unforgiving in its starkness, each tick of the clock a reminder of the decisions that had to be made. I needed to be strong, for Sarah, for my fragile grandson who had come into this world amidst such turmoil. My role was clear—to fight for them both, to be their advocate when they couldn’t speak or act for themselves.

A nurse entered, her face a picture of practiced calm. “Would you like to see your grandson?” she asked gently.

I nodded, barely finding the words to express my gratitude. She led me to the neonatal intensive care unit, where rows of incubators stood, each one a small fortress of life. The nurse pointed to the infant nestled inside the warmth and light. He was so tiny, his skin translucent, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of a new, fragile life.