There—on a cold metal bench—was my son. Alone. His blanket kicked aside, his tiny hands reaching out blindly into the air, his face flushed from cold and tears.

I grabbed him, pulling him tight against my chest. His skin was icy through his onesie.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered, choking back tears. “Daddy’s here.”

I sat there, holding both my children as the temperature dropped, something inside me shattering—and reforming into something unbreakable.

“Sophie,” I said quietly, “how long were you out here?”

She shivered against me. “I don’t know… maybe ten minutes? She said if I didn’t stop crying, she’d leave me too. She said we were making her head hurt.”

I looked down at her face. Truly looked. Her cheeks were hollow. Dark circles framed her eyes—eyes far too tired for a child.

“When did you last eat?” I asked.

She looked away. “Breakfast… I think.”