In the days following the birth of our child, my parents told us, “Don’t expect anything from us now.” But we chose love over fear.
I worked as a nurse. From 1990, I served in the county maternity hospital of Manchester. The work was grueling, the shifts exhausting, but I always knew why I persevered—so that one day, I too could become a mother and walk through those doors not as a nurse, but as a parent.
My pregnancy was smooth. Every test showed our little girl was developing perfectly. My husband, Thomas, and I eagerly prepared for her arrival—buying a crib, tiny clothes, everything for the day we’d bring her home. Our family shared our excitement, especially Thomas’s father, who promised a lavish gift and called almost daily: “Is everything all right? When’s the big day?”
We had no idea that after the birth, our lives would change forever. Everything we thought was certain would crumble, and love would face its hardest test.
The labour was quick. Our daughter was born weighing six pounds, six ounces, and measured eighteen inches—small but strong. They showed her to me briefly before taking her for examinations. Later, she was brought back for her first feed—she was sluggish, but I managed. Soon, we were settled in our room. An hour later, two doctors entered: the duty obstetrician and the neonatologist. Their expressions were grave, their gazes sympathetic. I knew at once something was wrong.
One spoke softly:
“Emma, your daughter has Down’s syndrome. As a medical professional, you understand this is a lifelong condition. We recommend you save yourself the heartache and consider relinquishing her. You’re young—you could still have a healthy child.”
I froze. The walls seemed to sway. My breath vanished, yet at the same time, something fierce and instinctive rose inside me: *This is my child. Mine.* And I would never give her up.
“Forgive me,” I whispered, “but I must speak with my husband. I believe he’ll refuse.”
“Of course, take your time. Come to us when you’ve decided.”
After they left, my daughter began to cry, her tiny hands reaching for me. The moment I held her close, I knew I could never live without her.
I called Thomas. Within the hour, he stood beside me. Together, we went to the head matron’s office. They urged him, too, to sign the papers. He was silent for a long moment before walking to the bassinet, gazing at our baby, and saying quietly,
“We’re not signing anything. We’re taking her home.”
We named her Beatrice—a name that came to my heart at once, gentle and bright and strong.
Three days later, another woman was admitted to our ward. She was in her thirties, on her fifth pregnancy. From the start, she said, “I won’t be keeping it.” When they told her the baby had Down’s, she didn’t flinch. “Process the paperwork,” she said. “And I won’t be breastfeeding.”
I couldn’t bear it. I asked the nurse if I could feed the little girl. She brought her in. When I held that tiny child, my heart lurched—she was so fragile, so quiet, as if she already understood.
I called Thomas. After a long silence, he said, “If you want her, we’ll take her too. Beatrice should have a sister.”
I went back to the matron. Told her we’d take the second child. No one called us mad—instead, the staff embraced me, saying, “You’re our hero.”
We stayed another week, waiting for the second baby’s umbilical stump to heal. We named her Florence.
The day we left the hospital was the happiest of our lives. We walked out not with one child, but two—Beatrice in one pram, Florence in the other. Both ours. Both beloved.
But not everyone shared our joy. When we told our parents we’d taken in a second child—one not our own—their reaction was ice. My parents, and especially Thomas’s father, said,
“We won’t have anything more to do with you. You made your choice—you’ll manage on your own. Don’t expect help from us.”
And so it was—no calls, no support. We were alone.
Those were hard years. Sleepless nights, illness, exhaustion. But worth every moment. We loved our daughters as we’d loved no one else. They grew up bright and cheerful, inseparable. By six, they knew their letters and tried to read on their own. The only change was our move closer to a special school, to give Beatrice the best chance.
Years later, our parents realized their mistake. Slowly, they began to visit. The girls adored them, thrilled by every reunion.
We bore no grudge. We had chosen love, not fear. And never for a second did we regret it.
