At two in the morning, after finishing a grueling twelve-hour emergency room shift, I spotted a young woman sitting outside the hospital with two newborn babies.

One baby was sleeping peacefully. The other was crying nonstop.

Their mother looked completely exhausted.
“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked.

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She wiped tears from her cheeks.

“No. I just don’t know how we’re going to get home.”

“My name’s Daniel. I’m a doctor here. What’s yours?”

“Emily.”

“How old are your little ones?”

“Six days.”

I smiled.

“Six days? They’ve barely had time to get used to the world.”

She managed a faint laugh.

Then she explained that she’d brought one of the twins, Oliver, to the hospital because he was having trouble feeding. Thankfully, the doctor had reassured her that he was fine.

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But afterward, she’d argued with her husband, Nathan.

“He drove away,” she whispered. “He took my purse, my phone, and even the diaper bag.”

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