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.”

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.

When I finally went into labor early yesterday morning, Desmond stayed right beside me through the long, exhausting hours that followed, holding my hand through every contraction like he could somehow absorb some of it himself.

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