Part 6 — The Wrong Miracle
Ten minutes later, someone placed a twelve-hour-old baby girl into my arms.
I had forgotten how small newborns were.
How impossible their fingers looked.
How their entire bodies seemed to fit into the space between your elbow and your hand.
She weighed a little over six pounds.
Her hair was dark and soft.
One tiny fist rested beneath her chin.
I stared at her.
Then her fingers opened and brushed against my shirt.
Something inside me cracked open.
James knelt beside the chair.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
Finally, he whispered,
“Are you sure?”
I looked at him.
“If you’re not, we stop. I mean that.”
My eyes returned to the baby.
For years, I had believed the daughter I imagined belonged to a life I wasn’t allowed to have.
I had mourned that quietly.
Packed away the blankets.
Stopped saying her name.
Closed the door.
And now, in my arms, was a little girl whose own mother had fought through her final moments to make sure somebody knew she needed a home.
“We spent years wishing our boys could have a little sister,” I whispered.
James nodded.
I kissed the baby’s forehead.
“Maybe we were waiting for the wrong miracle.”
James covered his face.
That was the second time I saw my husband truly cry.
