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Little Hope

My belly, once filled with a life, is now hollow.

"It's a girl," the doctor says.

I smile and meet my husband's gaze. Our eyes pool with tears of joy.

The doctors' eyes narrow and he checks for a heartbeat.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

He doesn't answer and the nurses' brows crease. They scurry and it's chaos - organized chaos.

The doctor turns to me and takes my hand in his. "It will be okay, just know we are doing everything we can."

The room is cramped and silent. A baby is supposed to cry. Why isn't my baby crying? Her body that filled me with so much life is lifeless.

The doctor stands in front of the bed, his eyes close and his eyes meet mine. "I'm sorry," he says.

My hand covers my mouth and my husbands' hand clenches mine. His knuckles white.

"I want to hold her," I say.

"Are you sure?"

"Give me my baby."

He places her cold, tiny form on my chest and my heart trembles. My husband folds his body over us and I hold onto the last bit of hope I have left.

Story by:

Tammi Ahmed

tammiahmed@yahoo.com

www.facebook.com/tammi.ahmed

24 October 2015