At 28 weeks pregnant, I went into premature labor. Despite doctors’ efforts, our daughter Eva was born too early, weighing less than two pounds. I caught a brief glimpse of her before she was taken to the NICU. Too weak to leave my hospital bed, I relied on my husband David’s daily updates—stories of her progress, tiny milestones, and hope for her survival. For two weeks, I lived for those updates. Polaroids, stories of her responding to his voice, breathing on her own—he gave me hope as I fought off complications that nearly took my life.
Then, just as I was finally strong enough to meet Eva, a NICU nurse delivered unthinkable news: Eva had died moments after birth. David had lied to me. There had been no progress, no photos, no survival—just one heartbreaking truth hidden behind two weeks of love-fueled deception.
