I was only twenty-four when I gave birth to my first child.

Yet I did not truly feel like a mother.

Not then, anyway.

The entire night before delivery, I pictured the instant they would lay my newborn against my chest.

I imagined happy tears.

I imagined my husband, Brian, squeezing my hand and whispering that our little boy was absolutely perfect.

Instead, after my son arrived, the room became quiet.

An unbearable, crushing quiet.

Nobody smiled.

Nobody said, “Congratulations!”

Nobody told me I had a beautiful child.

The doctor softened his voice before carefully telling me:

— Your son has Down syndrome.

For several seconds, I could not process the words.

What stayed with me most was the nurse’s expression.

She looked heartbroken, almost as though terrible news had been handed to me before I had even been given the chance to know my baby.

I turned toward Brian.

He stood near the wall, white-faced and frozen.

He never asked to hold our son.

Later, he finally said:

— We can’t do this.

— What are you saying?

— We’re too young. We aren’t prepared for a life like this.

“A life like this.”

Those words never left me.

The next morning, a hospital social worker came in carrying paperwork.

Brian remained beside me, yet he never reached for my hand.

“It doesn’t have to be forever,” he said.

Deep down, I knew otherwise.

Before I signed anything, the nurse brought my baby back one final time.

He looked tiny.

Completely calm.

Then I signed.

About an hour later, I walked from the hospital carrying an empty infant carrier…

That was when footsteps rushed up behind me.

The nurse.

She was crying.

She caught me before I could leave and whispered:

— Please… before you go, there is something you must know about what your husband asked us to do.