“God, please send me a brother or sister,” I’d hear her plead night after night. “I promise I’ll be the best big sister ever. I’ll help with everything. Please, just one baby to love.”
It broke my heart every time.
Mark and I had tried for years to give her a sibling, but after several miscarriages, doctors told us it wasn’t meant to be. We explained this gently to Savannah, but she never stopped hoping.
We weren’t wealthy. Mark worked maintenance at the local community college, fixing pipes and painting hallways. I taught art classes at the recreation center, helping kids discover creativity with watercolors and clay. We managed fine, though extras were rare. Still, our small house was filled with laughter, and Savannah never complained.
At 14, she was all long legs and wild curls—still young enough to believe in miracles, yet old enough to understand heartbreak. I thought her baby prayers were just childhood wishes that would fade. Then came the day everything changed.
