Seventeen years ago, I had my first baby. I remember lying in the hospital bed, completely in awe, with her tiny crib right beside me. I couldn’t stop looking at her. Every little movement, every breath felt like a miracle.
That first night, a nurse came in and gently offered to take my baby to the nursery for a few hours so I could rest. I smiled and said no. I didn’t want to miss a single moment. I just wanted her close, where I could see her, touch her, and know she was safe.
By the second night, exhaustion had finally caught up with me. My body felt heavy, my eyes could barely stay open, and I remembered the nurse’s offer. When a nurse came in again, I asked if she could take my baby to the nursery for a couple of hours so I could get some sleep.
She froze. Her face went pale as she looked at me and said, “Your baby is supposed to stay here with you. We don’t have a nursery. No one would ever come take your baby.”
In that moment, a chill ran through me. I held my baby closer than ever before, suddenly realizing how fragile trust can be—and how instinct, even when we don’t understand it, is sometimes there to protect us.
