They would replay that night for years, lingering on the way she traced each tiny fingertip as if memorizing a map she’d never want to lose. She laughed through her exhaustion, whispering promises into soft blankets: that they’d never feel the hunger she’d known, that their home would be gentler than the world had been to her. For a few stolen hours, it seemed destiny had finally shifted in her favor.

When the monitors screamed and the doors slammed shut, her family stood helpless, clutching each other in a corridor that suddenly felt endless. By sunrise, they were handed three perfect infants and a future permanently torn in half. Grief and gratitude now live side by side in their home. Every birthday candle, every first word, is a reminder: three lives began the day hers ended, and love is what keeps all four of them here.