Emily wiped her tears away quickly, not wanting to ruin the cheerful mood. She smoothed her jumper over her growing bump and pushed her son’s wheelchair through the café door.
It was a typical Sunday—the day when mums of children with disabilities in Bristol gathered at their usual spot to take a breather from endless hospital trips and fighting for their kids’ futures. They’d carved out this little escape for themselves, no charities or sponsors involved. The Bean Pot Café closed early just for them, thanks to the kind owner who served free tea, cakes, and even put on karaoke. For a few hours, these mums weren’t caregivers—they were just young women again, laughing, singing, and taking the mick out of each other.
Emily never missed it, even on the days she barely had the energy to move. This was her safe place, where everyone just *got it*. But today, she sat silent, unsure how to tell her friends she was pregnant—and that her husband had walked out, saying he couldn’t handle another child when their first had cerebral palsy. Emily had refused to terminate, and now, three months later, he was shacked up with someone else while she scraped together petrol money just to get here.
“Alright, spill then—what’s up?” Lisa Whitmore slid onto the bench beside her. She was stunning, vivacious, and tough as nails. Her daughter, Sophie Harlow, was in a wheelchair too, but thanks to Lisa’s relentless love, she’d won singing competitions across Europe and lived a life full of joy.
Emily’s throat tightened, but Lisa cut her off before the sob could escape. “Let me guess—he bailed? Well, good riddance. Forget him. What *do* you have left? What’s gonna help you raise these kids right?”
“Nothing,” Emily sniffed.
“Don’t be daft. God’s still here, yeah? Even now. And He works through people—you know that saying? Here, take the mic. We’ll sing, drink tea, and tonight you’ll figure it out. Oh, and google that therapist, Dr. Collins—she wrote about resilience. There’s *always* a way, Em. You’re not giving up this baby.”
So Emily sang. She laughed. Volunteers from a local charity watched her son while the mums tucked cake into her bag for later. And for the first time in months, walking into her empty flat didn’t make her flinch.
*Resilience. Resources.* That night, after tucking her son in—his sleepy “Mum, we’ve got this” making her heart swell—she scribbled down everything she *did* have.
Alright, first—no, *second*: God was still here, loving her. Then there was her 11-year-old, wheelchair-bound but sharp as a tack and kinder than anyone. He’d dote on his baby sister, she just knew it. He was her little rock.
But the list ran thin after that. She barely slept.
Morning came heavy, but skipping church wasn’t an option, not now. *”God, please—”* was all she could pray through the service at St. Michael’s, her favourite parish. The vicar, who’d once dreamed of building a rehab centre for disabled kids on the church grounds, stopped her after mass. He handed her bags of food—donations meant for the needy—and squeezed her shoulder.
“Take this, love. Mrs. Harris from down your road will bring more once the baby comes. She’ll mind the kids too, if you need. Just tell us *how* to help.”
Emily blinked at him, stunned.
“Speak up, love. People walk past struggles ’cause they don’t know *how*. Think on it, then come for tea.”
That’s when it hit her—good people *outnumbered* the rotten ones. They just needed directions. Swallowing her pride, she asked friends for help with her son. To her shock, they jumped in—babysitting, dropping off groceries, even clothes. Where pride had been, gratitude settled in its place.
So she added to her list: *God. My boy. St. Michael’s. My mates.*
Still, fear gnawed at her. The due date loomed, and beyond helpers, she had no income, no safety net.
Then a parcel arrived—brand-new baby clothes, a pram, a cot. A Facebook message followed:
*Dear Emily, mutual friends told me your situation. ‘Situation’—ha! More like a bump in the road. I work for a big firm in London and can spare £100 a month. It’s not much, but it’ll keep you afloat. Maybe say a prayer for me and my late mum, Margaret? You’re saving a little miracle. Kind regards, Claire.*
Emily’s hands shook. Tears blurred the screen. Then the doorbell rang—her old schoolmate Jake barged in with a flustered Frenchman in tow.
“Em, this bloke’s a nightmare—thick accent, can’t string a sentence together. Brilliant engineer, though. Here for a month on business. You’ve got three months till D-day, right? Help us translate some docs. I’ve banged on about how you aced French at uni. So, Antoine, meet our Em—lovely, divorced, *slightly* pre. Enjoy proper English chaos, mate.”
That evening, over tea, with Sophie’s singing filling the kitchen, Emily turned to Antoine. *”Avec Dieu, rien n’est impossible,”* she said smoothly, not realising this fluent French would land her a years-long side gig translating technical manuals.
Later, she crossed everything off her list except one word: *God.*
Because if He gave her this baby, He’d provide for her too.
