The room always whispered of loneliness,
its air, a faint mix of disinfectant and stale coffee.
Walls painted a surrendering shade of beige-blue,
chairs mismatched, fraying, lining edges like barriers.
This was the place where hope came to wither,
but it was the only doorway to my daughter.

She, a fragile star, born too soon,
her tiny form defying gravity, defying fate.
I carried the weight of these visits like lifelines,
measuring time in ounces of love
I tried to pour into each fleeting moment.

Each visit was a ceremony of motherhood,
bags packed with clothes too soft to bear,
nappies, toys, a knitted hat cradling my hope—
all reminders that I was still here.
Her mother, though the nights knew only her cries,
and the mornings woke without me.

“Don’t you know foster care provides?”
a voice sharp as the sterile air,
words thrown like stones to bruise my resolve.
But love is not an inventory.
It is the softness of pastel onesies,...