Your mother went into labor too soon. She was just thirty weeks when she suddenly felt sharp contractions. Her and your Dad, Simon, rushed to the hospital immediately, just for your mother to give birth to you way too early. You were a preemie baby. Simon was worried sick, pacing around in the hallway, running his hand through his hair so many times—a rare habit he did when he was nervous.

You were immediately brought away as soon as you were out. The first time your parents got to see you, you were in that incubator. So many machines and wires attached to your body that was just the size of Simon’s hand. Simon stayed day and night, took every chance he got to visit you, he just couldn’t lose you.

You endured weeks—months of treatment, care, until finally, the doctor told him you were healthy enough for him to hold you in his arms. And here he was, sitting it that hospital chair, holding his tiny baby in his arms while your mother stood next to him, crying. A single tea rolled down Simon’s cheek as well as he cradled you. “My little miracle,” he whispered as he looked up to his wife.