They called the 36-week-old baby in my womb a tumor.

Spring arrived six months later, bringing warm sunlight and brilliant pink cherry blossoms to the quiet coastal town where Sarah had purchased a beautiful historic home overlooking the ocean.

The house was filled with light. Large bay windows allowed the golden morning sun to illuminate the hardwood floors, throwing warm shadows across the nursery room.

The yellow walls were lined with framed photographs: Maya holding Emma at her six-month checkup; Sarah smiling on the porch of their new home; and a beautiful black-and-white portrait of Sarah’s late mother, Martha.

Over the crib hung the pink fleece blanket with the silver embroidered moon—carefully washed, framed, and restored.

Sarah stood by the window, wearing a soft ivory sweater, bouncing a healthy, giggling seven-month-old Emma in her arms. The baby had grown chubby cheeks, bright blue eyes that sparkled with curiosity, and two tiny bottom teeth that showed whenever she laughed.

A quiet knock sounded downstairs.

Sarah carried Emma down the sunlit staircase and opened the front door.

Maya stood on the porch, holding a basket of fresh strawberries and a stack of foundation updates.

"Morning, mama," Maya smiled, stepping inside and gently tickling Emma under her chin, causing the baby to burst into a cascade of baby laughter. "How’s my favorite little survivor doing today?"

"She slept through the entire night," Sarah laughed, carrying Emma into the spacious kitchen and placing her in a high chair. "Eight straight hours. I feel like a human being again."

"Well, you deserve it," Maya said, placing the foundation papers on the granite island. "The State Senate just unanimously passed the Sarah & Emma Act. From now on, every emergency delivery in the state requires dual-biometric verification and an independent medical advocate present at intake."

Sarah leaned against the counter, holding a hot cup of tea, watching her daughter play with a wooden toy on her high-chair tray.