“How is our daughter?” The surgeon looked at all of us, and then, to my everlasting relief, a small, tired, genuine smile broke across his exhausted face.

“Gemma is stable,” he said.

“She has turned a corner.

She is going to be alright.

And both of the twins are breathing entirely on their own in the nursery.” I let out a loud, shuddering sob and grabbed Gabriel’s sleeve, and he was already weeping again, silent tears sliding down his jaw, and I pulled him into a fierce, brief hug.

“She made it,” I whispered into his shoulder.