I settled down on the living room couch, cradling my three-week-old daughter, Debbie, in my arms. One look at her sweet, innocent face and my heart swelled with thankfulness. I thought back to the doctor’s words to my husband, John, and me just 14 months before she was born: “I’m sorry to tell you, but you have about a one-in-a-million chance of conceiving a child,” he’d said. Debbie was truly our miracle baby.
I strapped Debbie in her infant seat and placed her next to John on the couch. She smiled as her bright eyes followed the patterns of dappled sunlight that filtered through the window. “You stay here and keep Daddy company,” I said. “I’m going to make us all some lunch.”
As soon as I reached the kitchen, just a few steps away, I heard a voice, clear and urgent. “Get the baby!” it said. Who was that? I thought, peering back into the living room. John was quietly reading the paper, while Debbie played with her favorite rattle. “Get the baby!” There it was again! This time the voice was so strong that I darted to the living room and snatched Debbie, still in her seat, from the couch.
“I thought she was staying in here with me,” John said, sounding confused.
I felt a little foolish overreacting about the message I’d heard. “Um…well, I decided she can watch me cook,” I replied.
I walked into the kitchen, Debbie in my arms…
“BOOM!” an earsplitting crash came from the living room. I rushed back in. John stood next to the couch, his mouth agape.
The heavy wooden window cornice had pulled loose from its frame and fallen on the couch right where Debbie had been sitting moments before.
Yes, she’s our miracle baby in more ways than one.
