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On Christmas morning, I stood next to my daughter's crib, carefully buttoning her little cranberry-red dress, wrestling with a familiar knot of dread. My daughter, Maisie, was eight months old. She had sparkling blue eyes, delicate brown curls, and a smile that anchored my entire world. But she was undeniably petite. Born six weeks ahead of schedule, Maisie had spent her first three weeks in a Columbus, Ohio, neonatal intensive care unit. I could still feel the hum of the monitors, still see myself pressing my hands against the plastic incubator, praying for the day I could finally take her home. That terrifying chapter had fundamentally changed me. Every ounce she gained felt like a miracle; every restful night was a triumph. Now, her pediatrician was thrilled with her progress. She was healthy, energetic, and perfectly on track.