By afternoon, discharge papers were signed and the bag packed. Nora walked slowly through the corridor, the baby cradled close, each step feeling like it might break her and build her all at once.
Other families passed—fathers pushing wheelchairs, balloons bobbing against ceilings—but she didn’t envy them. She had her own miracle, quiet and fierce and wrapped in blue.
As she reached the exit, Dr. Patel appeared from a side hall. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “And of him.”
Nora smiled. “We will.”
“You have a good support network?” he asked carefully.
“My mom,” she said. “And a few friends. I’ll be okay.” Then, after a pause, “We’re both going to be okay.”
He nodded, though something in his eyes said he didn’t believe she needed his reassurance. Some people just carry light, and she was one of them.
As the automatic doors opened, a gust of warm wind swept through the lobby, carrying the faint smell of rain and cinnamon.
Dr. Patel looked up, half expecting to see someone standing there—but the space was empty except for sunlight and a mother walking into it.
