I used to believe the most shocking moment of my life was the afternoon my fourteen-year-old daughter, Savannah, appeared on our front porch pushing a battered stroller. Ten years later, a phone call from a lawyer proved me wrong.
Savannah had always been different. While her friends fell asleep to pop songs and tutorials, she whispered prayers into her pillow.
“God, please send me a baby brother or sister,” she’d murmur. “I’ll help with everything. Just one baby to love.”
After years of miscarriages, doctors told us we wouldn’t have another child. My husband, Mark, fixed pipes at the community college; I taught watercolor at the rec center. We weren’t wealthy, but our home was full of laughter. Savannah never complained, yet her prayers never ceased.
One crisp autumn afternoon, the front door slammed without warning. No “Mom, I’m home”—just her breathless voice: “Mom… please come outside.”
On the porch stood Savannah, pale and determined, holding the stroller handle. Inside were two tiny newborns—one squirming, the other asleep beneath a faded yellow blanket. They looked like dolls until the fussy one hiccupped.
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