After ten years of miscarriages, we finally had our miracle baby girl — but when the nurse handed her to my husband, he went completely pale, stared at the birthmark on her shoulder, and whispered, “No… that’s impossible.”
My husband, Desmond, and I spent our entire marriage trying to build a family. Over the last decade, we endured six heartbreaking miscarriages, each one taking a piece of us we never fully got back. By the time we found out I was pregnant again last year, we’d quietly agreed, without ever saying it directly out loud, that this would be our final attempt.
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Because of everything we’d already survived, the last nine months were filled with constant, low-grade anxiety. We barely set up the nursery until the final month, both of us terrified of letting ourselves hope too openly. But somehow, miraculously, everything progressed smoothly, week after week, well past every point where things had previously gone wrong.
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