**Diary Entry**
I’ve worked as a nurse since 1990 at a maternity hospital in Manchester—gruelling shifts, exhausting work. But I pushed through, knowing one day I’d walk those halls not as a nurse, but as a mother.
My pregnancy was smooth, all tests showing our little girl was healthy. My husband, James, and I eagerly prepared—buying a crib, tiny clothes, everything for the big day. His father, especially, couldn’t wait. He promised a lavish gift, calling often: “How’s it going? Everything alright?”
We had no idea everything was about to shatter.
Labour was quick. Our daughter, 6 pounds 6 ounces, small but strong. They handed her to me briefly before whisking her off for checks. When they brought her back, she nursed weakly, but we managed. An hour later, two doctors entered—faces grave.
“Emily,” one said softly, “your daughter has Down syndrome. As a medical professional, you understand what that means. We suggest you consider relinquishing her. You’re young—you can try again.”
The room swayed. Something fierce surged inside me. *She’s mine.*
“I need to speak to my husband,” I whispered.
James arrived within the hour. The head matron offered him the same choice. He walked to the cot, stared at her, then turned. “We’re taking her home.”
We named her Beatrice—soft yet strong, like the resolve in our hearts.
Three days later, another woman was wheeled in—mid-thirties, fifth pregnancy. The moment they told her *her* daughter had Down syndrome, she shrugged. “I’ll sign the papers. And I won’t be breastfeeding.”
Something snapped. I asked to feed the baby. When they placed her in my arms—tiny, quiet, as if she *knew*—my chest ached.
I called James. After a long silence, he said, “If you want her… let’s take her too. Beatrice should have a sister.”
The matron’s office again. No one called us mad. Instead, the staff hugged me, murmuring, “You’re a saint.”
We stayed another week, waiting for the second girl’s cord to heal. We named her Charlotte.
The day we left—*both* of them in prams—was the happiest of our lives.
But not everyone shared our joy. When we told our parents we’d taken in Charlotte, their voices turned to ice.
“Don’t expect anything from us,” they said. “You’ve made your bed—lie in it.”
And they meant it. Not a call, not a penny. Just silence.
Those years were hard—sleepless nights, illnesses, exhaustion. But worth every second. The girls grew bright, laughing, inseparable. By six, they knew their letters, sounding out words. We moved closer to a specialist school for Beatrice, sacrificing much, but never regret.
Years later, our parents softened. Visits began—awkward, then warm. The girls adored them, forgiving effortlessly.
We chose love, not fear. And I’d make the same choice a thousand times over.
—James & Emily WhitmoreEven now, when I hear Beatrice and Charlotte laughing together in the garden, I know we made the right choice.
