I visited Chloe constantly.
I learned what every beep meant.
I celebrated every gram she gained.
I whispered promises beside her incubator late at night.
“You and me, baby girl. We’re going home.”
Eventually, we did.
But coming home didn’t mean the fear ended.
Chloe still needed breathing treatments and medication. My insurance covered part of the cost, but not nearly enough.
I cut every expense I possibly could.
I canceled subscriptions.
Stopped buying anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary.
Sold jewelry.
Ate cheap meals that could last several days.
Ignored the pain from my healing incision whenever Chloe needed me.
I kept telling myself we were managing.
Until one afternoon at the pharmacy.
The pharmacist gave me the total for Chloe’s medication and supplies.
I stared at the screen.
Then I counted the money in my account.
Once.
Twice.
It didn’t matter.
I didn’t have enough.
