It had been the first safe thing anyone had done for me in weeks.
The baby arrived soon after they brought me to the hospital.
The delivery room filled with clipped instructions, warm blankets, monitor tones, and hands that touched me only after telling me what they were about to do.
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That small courtesy nearly broke me.
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For three weeks, every hand near my body had meant hunger, punishment, or humiliation.
Now a nurse asked permission before adjusting a blanket.
My baby needed monitoring, and I needed treatment for dehydration, malnutrition, bruising, and the injuries around my wrists, but we were alive.
