Another nod.
I looked toward the room.
Then I asked the nurse the question that changed all of our lives.
“Can I hold her?”
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.
Part 7 — Loving Her Didn’t Mean We Could Keep Her
Nothing magically became easy after that.
Love is not a legal document.
Wanting a child does not automatically make that child yours.
And Anna saying James’s name did not give us the right to bypass every rule designed to protect a newborn.
The process took nine months.
Nine exhausting, uncertain months.
There were interviews.
Background checks.
Home inspections.
References.
Court hearings.
Social workers asking questions that sometimes felt painfully intimate.
Our marriage was examined.
Our finances were examined.
Our parenting was examined.
Even our reasons for wanting the baby were examined.
