Asher was five months old now.
My boy , my baby boy.
He was still so small, so fragile his tiny fingers barely able to wrap around mine. His weight worried me every single day, most babies at this stage would be slightly heavy , maybe it's because he was born too earl but still. He was supposed to be stronger by now.
He should've been lifting his head properly, trying to sit, making cooing baby sounds,but Asher... sometimes he just stared, tired and silent, like he was fighting a war within his tiny body, again I thought to myself, "he was born early."
But what terrified me the most was when he refused to eat. At first, it happened once or twice. He'd turn his head, cry, and push away my breast. I'd try again and again, even hum lullabies or talk softly to him, but all my efforts felt like I was doing everything wrong.
