“You can fight anger, Bella. You can understand the reason for it.”
What Warren gave me instead was a glance at our newborn son, one look at the neurologist, and a silence so clean it felt sharpened.
“You can fight anger, Bella.”
Henry was less than three hours old. I still had an IV in my arm. My body felt split open, and my son was tucked against my chest, with one tiny fist twisted in my hospital gown.
The neurologist spoke gently, which I later learned is the first sign that your life is about to split into before and after.
“There is motor impairment,” she said. “We won’t know the full picture today, and Henry will need therapy, support, and close follow-up in the next few months.”
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