Twenty-nine weeks.
Ethan first.
Then Lucas.
Then Noah.
Then Miles.
Four sons.
Four incubators.
Four tiny bodies surrounded by tubing, alarms and nurses.
Ethan struggled to breathe.
Lucas had a small brain bleed that thankfully resolved.
Noah required surgery.
Miles had feeding complications and stayed hospitalized longer than his brothers.
For months, my entire world was measured in ounces, oxygen numbers and whether a nurse smiled before speaking.
Adrian was nowhere.
By the time the boys were healthy enough that survival no longer felt like a daily negotiation, I had stopped imagining him walking through the hospital doors.
I built another life.
Eight years later, one of those babies was standing behind me eating cereal directly from the box when I received Adrian’s Christmas invitation.
“Who’s Major Adrian Vale?”
I closed the laptop too quickly.
