Dear Claire: The Day We Finally Brought You Home

Dear Claire,

For weeks, we measured time in tiny victories. Every gram gained, every steady breath, every moment you held your temperature just right. We celebrated them all because we knew each step brought us closer to the day we dreamed of — the day we would finally bring you home.

But there was one last hurdle left. Feeding.

You were making progress in every way, but taking full feeds by bottle remained a challenge. We kept hearing the same quiet reassurance from the nurses: One day, it will just click. It felt like we were waiting on a light switch we couldn’t control, hoping it would flip but never knowing exactly when it would happen.

The days stretched long. We watched you try so hard, taking in just a few milliliters at a time before the rest had to be pushed through the tube. And we tried to stay patient, reminding ourselves that you were on your own timeline — just like you had been since the very beginning.

And then, almost out of nowhere, it happened.

You started finishing your bottles. One feeding, then another. It felt like a quiet miracle. We tried not to get our hopes up too fast, but you kept going. Feed after feed, you showed us that you were ready.

Before we knew it, they removed the tube. And suddenly, the conversations in the NICU shifted. For so long, we had been focused on getting through each day, but now the nurses were talking about something we had barely let ourselves imagine: taking you home.

I thought I’d feel only excitement when that day came, but if I’m honest, there was fear too. After weeks surrounded by nurses and monitors, after living in a routine of quiet checks and constant guidance, the idea of leaving with you — just us — felt overwhelming.

But I also knew we were ready.

We had learned so much. We had learned from you, from the nurses, and from those quiet, endless days at your side. We had learned how to care for you, to trust in small victories, and to hold onto hope, even on the hardest days.

That afternoon, as we loaded you up in your car seat, I remember looking at you and feeling a mix of nerves and awe. You were still so small, but you were stronger than you looked. Stronger than I could have ever imagined.

Bringing you home was a moment I’ll never forget. We stepped outside the hospital into the fresh air, and just like that, life opened up again.

We were no longer visitors to your life. We were home, together, where we belonged.

Love always,
Dad