Morning crept in softly through the blinds, painting the hospital walls in muted gold. I’d barely slept, but I didn’t care. My body was tired, but my heart wouldn’t rest—not while Marga was still so fragile. The rhythmic beeping of the monitor and the faint scent of antiseptic filled the air. Her little chest rose and fell steadily now, and for the first time in days, she wasn’t flushed with fever.

I reached over to smooth a stray curl from her face, my fingers brushing the softness ...