They walked into the delivery ward carrying months of rehearsed grief, already mourning a daughter the world had ruled unworthy. Each sterile hallway felt like a tunnel toward disaster, every monitor beep a reminder of the cruel forecast hanging over their child. Yet beneath the terror, a stubborn, trembling courage held them upright: the quiet conviction that love could not be a medical error.

When Nadejda arrived, wailing and flawless, the room shifted from courtroom to cathedral. The same professionals who had spoken of “invalid” and “incompatible with life” now stumbled over the word “healthy.” Relief crashed into rage, sorrow into gratitude. Olesia’s womb would be scarred forever, her chance for more children gone, but the life they were told to erase lay breathing against her skin. They left the hospital not with an apology, but with something louder: a living refutation, a tiny, fierce embodiment of hope.