Ten years ago, on a quiet Christmas morning, my wife and I walked into the hospital side by side, our hands clasped and our hearts full. We laughed the way people do when they believe life is about to reward them with something beautiful.
That day was our son’s due date.
We had called him our Christmas miracle long before he ever arrived. My wife had even tucked a tiny red stocking into her hospital bag, stitched carefully with a name we had whispered to each other for months, almost like a prayer.
Liam.
She was calm and radiant, joking with the nurses and teasing me through each contraction. When they wheeled her toward the delivery room, she squeezed my fingers and smiled.
“If he looks like you,” she said, “I’m sending him back.”
I laughed and kissed her forehead. She was warm. She was alive. Everything felt right.
A little while later, she told me she felt tired.
“Just for a moment,” she said softly. “I’ll rest my eyes.”
She never opened them again.
What happened next unfolded faster than my mind could understand. The room filled with voices and movement. I was gently guided aside as professionals rushed to help her and protect the baby.
None of it felt real.
Not on Christmas.
Not to us.
