I reflect back on how he came here. Here, where he lies being breathed for into barely developed lungs, a tube fed delicately through his nose into his tiny distended belly, covered with skin so fragile I worry a breath will take it off. A yellow beanie, lovingly made by a nurse covers his peach sized head and malformed face. His miniscule hands and feet periodically twitch bathed in eerie UV light. A cheery sign proclaims his ownership of this incubator but just around the corner his scans show the extent of his injuries we can’t see; part of his brain never developed.

Mum never wanted him. She asked for a termination but for some reason, was talked out of it. She had kids already, more than she could handle and certainly he was unwanted. She came back some weeks later, having tried to kill herself. We patched her up, and sent her on her way. And now, she came back, having been beaten and in premature labour.
And so he was born and promptly discarded. Mum returned home, back to her other kids and his future is unclear. For now he lives with us in the special care nursery, being breathed for.

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