As Mary leaned down to check on her baby daughter sleeping peacefully in her cradle, she realized she could never leave her husband, George, now that this child had been born.  She would have to give him partial custody, and that would mean being separated from this precious gift, this miracle, who had come so unexpectedly after the loss of her dear Jacob’.

Jacob. Poor boy.  The son who never walked, talked, or ate solid food but instead lived eight grueling years with a feeding tube, wailing at night as if he were begging God to take him to a world where he could run down hills, eat mounds of food, and sing with a voice so pure the angels would fly over to join him.  He finally got his wish after a torturous last few months, as his lungs filled with fluid and eventually sent him back to where he’d come. That same God had somehow seen fit to grace Mary and George with this perfect little baby now asleep in her cradle, her mouth lazily pursed and sucking as she dreamed of her mother’s breast in her sleep.

Mary sighed.  Why was George now so angry after all they’d been through? It was as if this child had triggered all of his pent-up feelings over Jacob—his birth, his life, and his death—and made him a brooding man with eyes that burned with pain?  A man almost impossible to live with.

Almost. Yes, that was the word that sent Mary back to bed, slipping under the covers to feel her husband’s warmth.  Almost meant another day was possible, and then another and another.  They would make it through this.  There was no other option.  She would not be separated for even a day from this baby girl.  And despite his rage—his grief—because of it, she knew, neither would George.