“Judge Callahan,” she told my father, “this baby won’t make it through the night. He’s too small, too. His breathing is shallow. Best prepare your wife for the loss.”
But my mother, delirious with fever and exhaustion, refused to accept that prognosis. “He’ll live,” she whispered, holding my tiny body against her chest. “I know he will. I can feel his heart beating. It’s weak, but it’s fighting.”
