The sharp ring of my hotel phone shattered the early morning silence. It was 5 a.m. in Red Deer, and on the other end of the line was Briea, her voice choked with panic. "My water broke," she gasped. "It's too early."

I jolted out of bed, a cold dread washing over me. Charlotte, our first child, wasn't due for another three months. My mind raced as I showered, checked out, and grabbed a coffee at the nearest Tim Hortons, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the change.

By 6:30 a.m., I burst through the doors of Foothills Hospital in Calgary, my heart pounding. As I entered Briea's room, the nurse practitioner looked at me in disbelief. "You can't be Mr. Turner," she said. "He's in Red Deer."

"It's me," I corrected her, "and I was in Red Deer at 5 a.m. this morning, but I'm here now."

I sat by Briea's side, holding her hand as the medical team swarmed around her. The hardest part was listening to the doctor explain the grim statistics of premature births, the potential complications, and the uncertainty. The goal was to keep our little fighter safe in the womb for as long as possible.

After a long, agonizing day, I returned home, exhausted and emotionally drained. But my respite was short-lived. The next morning, a frantic voicemail from Briea jolted me awake. "The baby is coming today," she sobbed. "One way or another."

I barely remember showering, but I do remember gulping down a can of Pepsi and racing to the airport, desperately trying to reach Briea on the phone. Finally, the call connected, and I choked out the words, "I'm on my way."

Back at the hospital, Briea and I clung to each other, tears streaming down our faces. I reassured her, though my fear gnawed at me. It was March 17th, St. Patrick's Day. Charlotte, our little miracle, was about to join us six months earlier than expected.

An Irish surgeon greeted us, his voice soft but firm. Charlotte was in distress; an infection had compromised the amniotic fluid, and the umbilical cord was deteriorating. An emergency C-section was our only option.

In a blur, Briea was prepped for surgery, and I was whisked into an observation room to don a gown and cap. A kind nurse inquired about my breakfast, to which I sheepishly admitted, "Just a can of Pepsi on the way here."

"Oh, that won't do," she chuckled. "We don't need two patients in there! Here, have a sandwich and some juice before we begin."

Grateful for her foresight, I quickly ate, the food doing little to settle my nerves. Soon, I was escorted into the operating room, where I sat by Briea's head, holding her hand and stroking her hair, offering what little comfort I could.

The surgeon and nurses went to work to deliver Charlotte, and it's a good thing they did. Charlotte had been struggling to feed and breathe in Briea's womb, as an infection had attacked Briea's uterus, depleting amniotic fluid. The cord fell apart in the surgeon's hands. Charlotte was out, and they went to work cleaning up Briea and stitching her up. Briea asked, alarmed, "Is she breathing?" and my response was, "She has hair, she has hair!" The room was chaotic as they took Charlotte over to an incubator. All we could think was, "Is she breathing?". A few minutes later, we breathed a huge sigh of relief as Charlotte began to cry and take her first breaths.

My brother met me at the hospital later that day, and we sat on a bench outside, the weight of the unknown heavy on our shoulders. "We don't know if she's going to make it," I choked out, tears welling up in my eyes. He put his arm around me, offering silent comfort.

The rest of our family rallied around us, flying in from Prince Albert, Hawaii, and even Montana. Friends dropped off meals, offered words of encouragement, and helped us navigate the emotional rollercoaster we were on.

The beeping of the heart monitor was a constant drumbeat in my ears, a rhythm of fear and hope. The NICU air, thick with antiseptic and the low hum of machines, crackled with an electric tension. As I gazed down at Charlotte, our less than two-pound miracle swaddled in wires and tubes, her tiny chest rising and falling with each precious breath, I knew at that moment that fatherhood wasn't about barbecues or golf. It was about fighting for your child, loving them fiercely, and celebrating every victory, no matter how small.

The NICU became our second home. First at Foothills Hospital, then a transfer to the Peter Lougheed Centre. Each move was fraught with worry, as we knew these transfers were hard on such tiny bodies. During those journeys, Charlotte's breathing stopped many times, each incident a gut-wrenching reminder of her fragility.

But through it all, the nurses, with their gentle touch and calming voices, were our angels, guiding us through the labyrinth of medical jargon and offering hope when it seemed in short supply. We are eternally grateful to the first responders, the firefighters and paramedics who rushed Briea to the Foothills Hospital, and then the teams at both the Foothills and Peter Lougheed Hospitals. We'll never forget their kindness and expert care during those uncertain early days.

After two weeks at Foothills and another six at Peter Lougheed, Briea and I finally got to take our baby home. Charlotte, now a robust four pounds, was nestled in a modified car seat with extra cushioning to support her tiny body. I remember fumbling with the straps, laughing and crying tears of joy, and asking the nurses for the manual one last time.

It was a joyful moment, a culmination of eight long weeks, and also a terrifying moment to think that Charlotte had all of this support for two months and now she would be coming home to her two parents and their ornery Yorkshire Terrier, Einstein. I'll never forget strapping her into the car for the first time. As we pulled out of the Peter Lougheed parking lot and stopped at the red light, who should show up directly across from us in the right lane but Briea's dad, Dave, who had just made a trip to Costco. Through the car window glass, we locked eyes with Dave. He pointed at the car, his expression a question mark. 'Is she in there? Are you taking her home?' Briea and I nodded, our smiles dissolving into happy tears. Across two lanes of traffic, a silent conversation of love and relief unfolded. The light turned green, we waved 'See you later,' and we took our baby home.

There's something about holding a child so small, so fragile, that awakens a primal instinct. Maybe it's the sheer vulnerability, the overwhelming sense of responsibility. Or maybe it's the realization that this tiny being, with her impossibly small fingers and enormous, inquisitive eyes, holds the power to reshape your entire existence.

For me, it was all of that and more. In those early days, as Charlotte fought for every breath in the NICU, I found myself transformed. The man who once prided himself on his thick skin and stoic demeanour was reduced to a blubbering mess at the mere sight of her tiny footprints inked onto a card.

But those tears weren't born of sadness. They were tears of awe, of gratitude, of a love so profound it defied description. And as Charlotte grew stronger, day by day, my love for her only deepened.

Now, at 12 years old, Charlotte is a force of nature. She's whip-smart, with a wit that could rival any stand-up comedian. She devours books like they're candy, spins fantastical stories, and creates art that takes my breath away. In recent years, she's embraced the grace and athleticism of rhythmic gymnastics, her body flowing in harmony with the music and ribbons. And in the last couple of years, she's discovered a passion for downhill skiing that fills me with both pride and a healthy dose of terror.

Being Charlotte's dad has changed me in countless ways. It's softened my edges and made me more patient, more empathetic. It's taught me the true meaning of unconditional love. And it's given me a newfound appreciation for all the incredible women in my life.

I'm surrounded by them, you see. There's my amazing wife, Briea, my partner in crime and the glue that holds our family together. There's Charlotte, of course, the girl who stole my heart and never gave it back. And even our sassy Miniature Schnauzer, Mittens, is a female.

Yes, I'm outnumbered. And yes, there are days when it drives me absolutely bonkers. Like when I find glitter in my beard or discover that my razor has been used to sharpen coloured pencils. But I wouldn't trade it for the world. Being loved by so many women, and loving them in return, is the greatest blessing I could ask for.

So, this Father's Day, as I think about Charlotte carving her way down the slopes (with a silent prayer for her safety) or lose myself in one of her hilarious stories, I'll be overflowing with gratitude. Gratitude for the tiny preemie who taught me what it truly means to be a dad. I am grateful for the incredible women who fill my life with love and laughter (and occasionally glitter). I am grateful for the medical professionals who helped us through those early days, the family and friends who rallied around us, and the countless others who offered their support. And most of all, gratitude for the messy, chaotic, beautiful journey of fatherhood.

If this story has touched you, consider donating to or volunteering at your local NICU. Your contribution can make a real difference in the lives of premature babies and their families.