For her We Chose to Begin Again – Part three

Before slipping into unconsciousness, I thought the hardest part was over. I was wrong.

When I woke up after the surgery, I was tired but excited. I couldn’t wait to hold my baby boy, to feel him in my arms for the first time. But what was supposed to be a short wait turned into hours. When the doctor finally came in, he had bad news.

My little one had complications and needed to be kept in the NICU for further treatment. The updates that followed throughout the day brought no relief—just more bad news. By the end of that day, I realized I wouldn’t get to hold him that night. I only hoped and prayed that he would get better the next day.

The next day was no better. He had breathing issues and was placed on ventilator support. I was wheeled to the NICU for a glimpse of him. But nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. My baby, so tiny, so fragile, hooked to machines and tubes—it felt like my worst nightmare was unfolding right in front of me. I was in denial. This can’t be happening to me.

The nurses asked what we had named him. They needed it for the paperwork. But I had no answer. I was terrified of naming him, afraid that if I did, I might lose him. I didn’t want to buy more clothes or things for him, scared that he’d slip away like sand slipping through my fingers.

For the next two days, nothing changed. And then came the hardest part—I was discharged, but my baby wasn’t coming home with me. How do you leave the hospital without your newborn baby? I was a new mom, going home empty-handed, leaving my son behind, surrounded by strangers. I felt like a fraud—a mother who couldn’t protect her child. I was so angry with myself.

Even now, thinking about those moments, I feel that same ache, the same helplessness.

Every day, we visited the hospital, waiting for a glimpse of our boy through the glass. We weren’t allowed to hold him—he was too vulnerable, too fragile. My daughter, Mugddha, came home from school every afternoon, excited to meet her brother, only to be met with disappointment.

Then, after about a week, we were called to the hospital. “He’s a little better. You can hold him now,” they said.

Inside a small cabin in the NICU, I held my son for the first time. My handsome boy. I was overwhelmed with emotions, tears streaming down my face. And then… in the middle of his deep sleep, he yawned. I couldn’t stop my smile through the tears. He was just like his sister. Mugddha had the same habit of yawning even in her sleep. That tiny, familiar gesture gave me hope. Hope that the worst is over. Hope that things will be ok. That night, we slept a little better, believing that he would be home soon.

And after more than two weeks in the NICU, my little fighter came home. My angel. My miracle.

When Adi finally came home, I thought the hardest days were behind us. I didn’t know then that this was just the beginning of a different kind of journey—one that would change me forever.

But in that moment, for the first time in weeks, I felt a glimmer of peace. All I knew was that my boy was finally home. We four were together under one roof, safe. That moment of happiness, when he was finally in my arms, is something I will hold on to for the rest of my life.