She never imagined holding her baby after he was gone.
Never imagined that her arms would become a cradle of goodbye instead of a cradle of life.
She never imagined bathing him one last time, washing his tiny hands and feet with tears falling quietly into the basin.
Never imagined dressing him in the soft clothes she once dreamed he would wear home.
Never imagined kissing his cheeks, knowing she would never hear them giggle.
Foster and Drake came into the world far too soon — fragile, beautiful, and fighting with everything they had.
Side by side, two perfect heartbeats.
For eleven days, their tiny chests rose and fell in unison, hearts beating in perfect rhythm like a whispered promise of hope.
But on the eleventh day, one rhythm faded.
One heartbeat stilled.
Foster’s fight was over.
And in that single moment — her world broke into two pieces: one that stayed, one that she could never hold again.
She held him close — not with the joy she expected as a new mother, but with a grief so deep it stole the air from her lungs.
She memorized every detail:
The softness of his skin.
The delicate curl of his eyelashes.
The gentle curve of his lips, forever silent.
The peace on his face — the kind only angels wear.
She whispered love into his ears, knowing he would never hear it again on this side of heaven.
She tucked his blanket around him, though he would never feel cold again.
And she prayed that somehow, somewhere, he knew just how deeply he was loved.
Then came the moment no mother should ever face.
As she watched them place her son in a small white casket, so impossibly tiny, it didn’t seem real.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to run.
She wanted time to stop.
Because how do you walk away from your child?
How do you leave a hospital with empty arms when you arrived with dreams?
Her feet moved, but her soul stayed behind — wrapped in a blanket inside that casket.
