Counting down.

10 Weeks, 9 Hours

Ten weeks, nine hours.

No one could ever understand the struggle of looking at your own child as you are forced to watch as the pain ate away at her.

Trying my best to ignore the clock. Each tick like a new tube they stab into you as I fake a smile, just for you.

Ten weeks turns to seven in a flash.

Sands of time slipping through my fingertips, the heat of rage I feel turning the fragile sand to glass. Agonising rage coursing my veins as the fire of parenthood dies within me.

At 6 o'clock every day, I read you your favourite book. Every time, my eyes remain only on your mouth to see if you give me your lovely giggle. I even memorised the book, just so I wouldn't have to look away from you mouth.

It's always a straight line.

The only moments I leave you are when I sit in the waiting room biting my 5 nails, both hands, continuously. Waiting for the doctor's to finally tell me she's magically better and I get to whisk you away in my arms back home.

4 weeks.

You used to give me a smile every day. Multiple. I would always count. But they've been fading. First, it dropped by half, and then to only 3 and now it's rare enough for me to ever see one from you.

I just want my baby back.

Two turns to one.

The age she'll never get to be.

I sit with her in these final hours. We breathe in sync, our hearts intertwined through the poke of two fingertips separated by the bed's railing. I check the clock and notice the hands as they tick over midnight. A full year. It had been a year since I was in a bed like this with you.

If I could pull my eyes away from the clock, I would. But from the sound of a long beep, I know I don't want to. Tears welling in my eyes as I manage to push out the only words I can.

"Happy birthday."

Zero weeks, zero hours.