Lucy bit back her tears, determined not to spoil the gathering. She adjusted her jumper over her rounding belly and pushed her son’s wheelchair ahead as she opened the café door.
It was just another Sunday, when the mothers of children with disabilities in Manchester met at the café to steal a moment’s respite from endless therapies and fights for their children’s dignity. They had carved out this little refuge for themselves, without sponsors or charities—just a quiet rebellion against exhaustion. The “Hearthstone” café closed its doors for them, its owner serving tea and cakes on the house, even putting on karaoke. And for those few hours, the mothers shed their burdens, laughing, singing, teasing one another like carefree women again.
Lucy always came, even when she could barely move. This was her sanctuary, where she was understood. But today she sat silent, dreading how to tell the others she was pregnant—and that her husband had walked out, declaring the weight too heavy to bear. A second child shouldn’t come, not when the first had cerebral palsy. But Lucy had refused to end it, and now, three months on, her husband lived with another woman while she scraped together petrol money just to bring her son here.
“Out with it, then. What’s happened?” Emily Whitmore slid beside her, radiant and sturdy. Her daughter, Sophie, was in a wheelchair too, yet thanks to Emily’s devotion, the girl had won singing competitions across Europe and lived joyfully. Lucy nearly dissolved into self-pity, but Emily cut her off briskly. “Right, he’s gone? Well, God judge him. Tell me this—what have you got left? What can actually help you raise those children?”
“Nothing,” Lucy sniffed.
“Rubbish. God’s still there, isn’t He? Even now. And He helps through people’s hands—remember that saying? Here, take the mic. We’ll sing, drink tea, forget it all for now. Tonight, you’ll think properly. And read that piece by Dr. Hartley on resilience—you’ll find it. She’s the one who got me through. There’s always a way, Lucy. You don’t throw away a miracle.”
So Lucy sang and laughed while volunteers from a charity minded her son. They packed her cakes to take home, and for once, the silence of her flat didn’t sting.
Resources, resources… That night, after tucking her boy in and melting at his whisper—”Mum, I love you. We’ll manage together”—she listed what she had.
There it was: the first, no, the second. God was near. Her eleven-year-old son, though bound to a chair, had a bright mind and a heart so vast he’d surely dote on his sister. He was her inspiration.
But the list grew thin after that. She lay awake till dawn.
Morning came heavy, but she couldn’t skip Mass, not now. “Lord, Lord!” was all she murmured through the service at her beloved church on Grafton Street. The vicar, who’d once dreamt of building a rehab centre for children like hers, approached afterward, bundling grocery parcels donated for the departed.
“For you and your boy, Lucy,” he said softly. “Mrs. Greene down your road will bring meals once the baby comes. She’ll mind the children if needed. What else can we do?”
Lucy stared, bewildered.
“Speak up, Lucy. Folk steer clear of hardship when they don’t know how to help. Think on it, then come for tea.”
And so she learnt: kindness outnumbers cruelty. People just need to be shown how. Pride had to go—she asked friends to sit with her son, and to her shock, they leapt at it, bringing clothes and food too. Where haughty pride had lived, humility grew, and gratitude to God.
Still, fear gnawed as her due date neared. Helpers were plenty, but income? Security? None.
Then a parcel arrived—exquisite baby clothes, a pram, linens. On Facebook, a message waited from a woman named Charlotte:
“Dear Lucy, mutual friends shared your struggle—though ‘struggle’ isn’t the word. Temporary trials, perhaps. I work in London and can spare £200 monthly to your account. Let it keep you afloat with your miracles. As a believer yourself, might you pray for me and my late mother, Margaret? Grateful for your courage. Charlotte.”
Lucy’s hands trembled. Tears pricked her eyes just as the doorbell rang—a friend come to take her son out. They’d made a rota, these friends, standing watch like sentinels.
This time, it was Tom from school, shoving a flustered man forward.
“Lucy, meet Antoine—French, brilliant, but his English is a nightmare. Here on business a month. You’ve three months till the baby, yeah? Help us translate some documents. I’ve sung your praises—how you aced languages at uni. So, Antoine, behold Russian life up close, and prat your French with our lovely Lucy here. Pregnant or not.”
That evening, after settling details with Antoine and Tom, Lucy served tea and played Sophie Whitmore’s latest performance—the girl’s voice stilled every heart.
“What’s impossible for man is possible for God. True, Antoine?” she said in flawless French, unaware she’d just secured years of freelance translation work.
Later, she entered the nursery and crossed out every resource on her list but one: God.
For if He gives a child, He’ll provide for that child too.
