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When Victor was born at 29 weeks, I realized how fragile life is and how intense and immediate maternal love can be. I spent the 11 weeks while he was hospitalized in a daze. I was like a robot, driving between the hospital and Ronald McDonald House, running on adrenaline and newfound determination every day. I didn’t cry. I wanted to be strong for him. When I gave birth at term to my second son, Laurent, and he was placed on me and his mouth searched for my breast, I cried all the tears that I hadn’t shed for my handsome Victor. I never had the chance to enjoy that first precious contact with him, and it was only later that I realized what we both had missed out on.