“Do you remember what I asked you in the hospital hallway?” he smiled. “I asked if you’d come meet our daughter.”
“You didn’t even know she’d be ours back then,” I said softly.
“I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life trying to give her a home,” he replied, holding my hand. “I guess that box was just waiting for her.”
From down the hallway, a soft cry echoed. We both stood up, sharing a laugh before heading toward the nursery together.
Four years earlier, we thought that box of baby clothes was proof of a dream we had lost. We were wrong. Sometimes the things we hold onto aren’t reminders of the past—they are quiet preparations for a future we haven’t imagined yet.
And sometimes, the answer to a prayer arrives in a plastic hospital bassinet with a knitted hat, a tiny fist, and a simple note asking for a home.
