Dad held his poor newborn carefully, both palms steady as if even a breath too strong might hurt her. She was not well today. Her tiny body felt weaker than it should, her cries thin and tired, her eyes half-open like she was fighting to stay awake. Every small movement worried him.
He checked her face again and again, watching her breathing, touching her belly softly. This little life depended on him now. There was no room for delay. No room for fear to freeze his hands. Only care.
The multivitamin was prepared slowly, measured with caution. Dad spoke in a low, calm voice, not because she understood the words, but because she felt the intention. He supported her head, bringing the drop gently to her mouth. At first, she resisted, lips trembling, too weak to suck strongly. Dad waited. He did not force. Patience was part of healing.
A tiny swallow. Then another. Her throat moved, slow but steady. Dad’s heart eased just a little. He wiped her mouth, watching closely for any sign of discomfort. When she whimpered, he paused, rocking her softly, letting her rest before continuing.
The room stayed quiet. No rush. No panic. Just a father and a fragile newborn fighting together in small steps. After the vitamin, he wrapped her in warm cloth and held her against his chest. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.
Her body relaxed. The tightness in her face softened. She sighed faintly, the sound barely there but enough to bring tears to his eyes. She was still weak. Still worrying. But she was safe for now.
Dad stayed like that for a long time, watching, listening, promising silently that he would not give up. Healing wouldn’t be fast. Strength wouldn’t come all at once. But love would be constant.
For a newborn not feeling well, medicine helps the body. But gentle hands, warmth, and devotion help the will to live. And today, that was enough to keep hope alive.
