When Jenny was born, she looked so precious.
I stood over her as she cooed and gripped her mother's finger tight. I watched as she spluttered and cried, and I stayed as everyone left her in the incubator to calm down.
I brushed my finger gently across her face, her delicate skin warm against mine as her sobs slowed and my heartbeat quickened.
She could see me. She blinked her beautiful doe eyes in my direction, and my breathing stalled as I took in her small, cozied up appearance.
I stuck my hand out slowly for her, willing her to take it.
And she did.
With tiny, hesitant fingers, her hand wrapped itself firmly around my thumb, the low temperature of my skin making her fragile frame shiver.
I looked down at her, my top teeth biting down hard on my bottom lip as she let out a sound that I could only assume was her acknowledging my existence.
I stayed with her that whole night. I stayed bent over the uncomfortable cradle that held the little girl, watching and waiting for a nurse to hush her cries when I couldn't do it myself.
I stayed with her that night. And that was the first time I ever found myself loving something so much.