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I’m the mother of Aymeric, born at 32 weeks of pregnancy. My son took on some major battles with every ounce of his three-pound body. During our hospital stay, my heart would break to think that he was probably crying at night and I wasn’t there for him. The hardest part was the incomprehension, the uncertainty, and having to juggle with life continuing outside the hospital walls. And knowing that the baby was no longer in my stomach but not in my arms, either. Having a preemie means jumping for joy when he’s gained a few grams overnight, and hoping for good news every morning. It means being afraid that the phone will ring and the hospital will be calling because of complications.