I was twenty-four years old when I gave birth to my first child.
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For nine months, I had imagined that moment a thousand different ways.
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I imagined my husband, Michael, crying when he saw our son for the first time. I imagined holding the baby against my chest while everyone around us smiled and congratulated us.
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But when my son was born, no one celebrated.
The room became strangely quiet.
I remember the doctor clearing his throat before speaking softly.
“Your baby has Down syndrome.”
For several seconds, I simply stared at him.
Then I looked at Michael.
He was standing beside the wall, completely still.
“Michael?” I whispered.
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He didn’t answer.
The nurse wrapped our baby in a blanket and brought him toward us for a moment, but Michael took a step backward.
That tiny movement frightened me more than the doctor’s words.
