I wanted to be a mother more than anything else I had ever wanted in my life.

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It was not a quiet hope or a passing thought. It was a constant ache that followed me into every room, every conversation, every season.

My husband and I tried for years.

Our lives became carefully scheduled around calendars, appointments, and whispered optimism. We sat in small exam rooms under harsh lights while professionals spoke gently about possibilities and patience.

We learned how to nod.
How to wait.
How to hope without expecting too much.

Over time, hope became heavier.

We experienced loss after loss, each one private and invisible to the world. I learned how to smile at baby showers while my chest felt tight. I learned how to fold away tiny clothes I had bought too soon. I learned how to grieve quietly.

My husband never blamed me.

He held my hand every time. He stayed steady when I felt hollow. But I could see it in his eyes, that growing fear that maybe hope itself was too painful to carry.

After the last loss, something inside me finally gave way.

I sat on the bathroom floor, my back against the tub, feeling empty in every sense of the word.

And for the first time in my life, I prayed out loud.

“God,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “If You give me a child, I promise I will give a home to one who needs it too.”

I did not know if anyone was listening.

But the words felt permanent, as if they had been written into my bones.

Ten months later, I held a newborn baby girl in my arms.

Her name was Stephanie.

She was loud, red-faced, and full of life. Her cries filled the room, and instead of exhaustion, I felt joy rise up in me like something holy. When she wrapped her tiny fingers around mine, I knew my life had changed forever.

I never forgot the promise.

On Stephanie’s first birthday, with balloons brushing the ceiling and frosting smeared across her cheeks, we signed the final adoption papers.

That same day, a social worker placed another baby into my arms.

Her name was Ruth.