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The atmosphere in the hospital room was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the heavy, humid warmth of a life newly arrived. I sat propped against the pillows, the dull ache of stitches and the exhaustion of labor weighing down my limbs, but my focus was entirely on the edge of the bed. There sat Lina, my four-year-old, looking impossibly small in her favorite red suspenders, her ponytail slightly lopsided from a day spent waiting in the hallway. In her lap lay a bundle of white linen—her newborn sister.
I had spent nine months paralyzed by the classic anxieties of a second-time mother. I worried about the displacement of the firstborn, the fractured attention, and the potential for a simmering, childish resentment. But as I watched Lina, those fears seemed to evaporate. Her hands, though trembling with the effort of being still, cradled the infant with a startling degree of reverence. Her eyes didn’t just sparkle with the typical excitement of a new toy; they held a profound, ancient depth that I couldn’t quite name. She was rocking slightly, whispering rhythmic “shh” sounds that felt more like a practiced ritual than an imitation of me.
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