I gave birth to the first of my quadruplets at twenty-three weeks, but the doctors stopped the delivery before the other three could be born.

The NICU was a realm of soft blue lights, quiet whispers, and the endless symphony of electronic alarms. Beep-beep-beep. Chime-chime-chime.

The scent of isopropyl alcohol and sterile scrub soap was overwhelming.

Andrew pushed my wheelchair through the heavy double doors of Pod A. Nurse Brenda and Dr. Reed were standing near the control station, reviewing four sets of complex vitals.

When Dr. Reed saw me rolling in, holding a pillow tightly against my abdomen to support my surgical incision, he smiled. “Welcome to the nursery, Mom.”

My breath caught in my throat as Andrew parked my chair between Incubator A and Incubator B.

Up close, without the barrier of an iPad screen, the reality of my quadruplets was almost overwhelming. They were so unbelievably small. Four tiny lives, weighing a total of less than five pounds combined, hanging onto existence by threads of medical technology and sheer human will.

“Would you like to hold Faith’s hand?” Nurse Brenda asked softly.

“Can I?” I gasped. “I won't break her?”

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Brenda smiled. She unsnapped two circular ports on the side of Incubator A and sanitized my hands with warm disinfectant soap.

I reached both hands inside the plastic bubble. The air inside was warm and humid, mimicking the environment of my womb.

I extended my index finger. Slowly, carefully, I touched the palm of Faith’s hand.

Her little fingers, no larger than matchsticks, instantly curled around my nail. Her skin was incredibly soft, warm, and fragile.

“Hi, Faith,” I whimpered, a flood of love surging through me so violently that my knees buckled in the chair. “Hi, my sweet girl. Mommy’s here. I’m sorry I couldn't hold you when you were born. I’m so sorry.”

On the monitor above her head, Faith’s heart rate—which had been hovering at a stressful one hundred and sixty—slowly began to drop, settling into a calm, steady one hundred and thirty-five. Her oxygen saturation numbers rose from ninety-one to ninety-eight percent.

“Look at that,” Dr. Reed said, stepping closer and looking at the screen. “Her vitals are stabilizing just from hearing your voice and feeling your skin. Never underestimate the power of a mother’s biology.”

I turned my head to look at Oliver, Sophie, and Mia in the adjacent incubators. I reached my other hand out toward Oliver’s incubator, placing my fingers gently on his tiny leg.

For the first time in six days, my whole world was in one room.

We weren't out of the woods. There would be weeks, perhaps months, of critical danger ahead—infections, brain bleeds, lung disease, and surgical scares were constant threats for twenty-three-week infants.