The pregnancy revived her. She came to every appointment, painted the nursery, talked to my belly for hours. My boys called it “Aunt Rachel’s baby.” Our house was full of laughter again.
Then labor came—fast and fierce. I gripped the hospital bed, Luke calling Rachel again and again. No answer.
Hours later, through the haze of pain, I heard the sweetest sound—a baby’s cry.
“Congratulations,” the doctor smiled. “You have a healthy baby girl.”
I looked down at her tiny face—soft curls, clenched fists, perfect and alive. “Your mommy’s going to be so happy,” I whispered.
Two hours later, Rachel and Jason arrived. I felt relief—until I saw their faces.
They weren’t joyful. They were stunned.
Rachel stared at the baby in my arms. “The nurse said…” she stammered. “This isn’t what we expected.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, dread rising.
“It’s a girl,” she said flatly. “We wanted a boy.”
