Emily wiped away her tears, determined not to ruin the gathering. She adjusted her jumper over her growing bump and pushed her son’s wheelchair through the café door.
It was a typical Sunday—the one day when mums from Manchester who had children with disabilities met at the café to catch their breath from endless therapies and battles for their kids’ futures. They’d organised these gatherings themselves, without sponsors or charities. The Bean Stop Café closed specially for them, offering free tea, cakes, and karaoke. For a few hours, these women weren’t just carers—they laughed, sang, and teased each other like any other friends.
Emily always came, even on the hardest days. This was her safe place, where she was understood. But tonight, she sat silently, unsure how to tell the others she was pregnant—or that her husband had walked out, saying he couldn’t handle another child when their first had cerebral palsy. She’d refused an abortion, and now, three months on, he’d moved in with another woman. She’d barely scraped together enough for petrol just to get here tonight.
“Come on, out with it—what’s wrong?” Sarah Whitmore slid beside her. Beautiful, strong, and full of life, Sarah’s daughter, Lily, was also in a wheelchair but had won singing competitions across the country. She lived joyfully, thanks to her mum’s unwavering love.
Emily nearly dissolved into self-pity, but Sarah cut in briskly: “He left, didn’t he? Well, good riddance. What matters now is—what have you got to work with? What’ll help you raise those kids?”
“Nothing,” Emily sniffled.
“Nonsense. God hasn’t abandoned you. And He helps through people—remember that saying? Here, take the mic. Let’s sing, drink tea, and forget for a bit. Then tonight, read that article on resilience by that therapist, Dr. Clarke. Look it up. There’s always a way, Em. You can’t throw away a miracle.”
So Emily sang and laughed while volunteers from a charity played with her son. They even packed her extra cakes, and for once, the silence of her empty flat didn’t frighten her.
Resources, resources… That night, after tucking her son in—his sleepy “Mum, I love you, we’ll figure it out” warming her heart—she sat down to list what she had.
First, God, who hadn’t left her. Second, her eleven-year-old son, wheelchair-bound but sharp-minded and full of love—he’d be her little one’s biggest cheerleader.
But the list looked pitifully short, and she barely slept.
Morning came heavy, but she couldn’t skip Sunday service, not now. “God, help me,” she whispered through the hymns at St. Michael’s, her beloved church in Manchester. The vicar, who’d long dreamed of opening a rehabilitation centre for disabled children, approached her afterward. He handed her bags of food—donations meant for the needy.
“This is for you and your boy, Emily,” he said softly. “Mrs. Andrews down your street will bring meals after the baby comes. She’ll even watch the kids if needed. Just tell us what else you require.”
Emily stared, overwhelmed.
“Speak up, love. People avoid suffering because they don’t know how to help. Think on it, then come for tea.”
That’s when she realised—good people outnumbered the cruel. They just needed direction. Swallowing her pride, she asked friends for help—just a few hours of babysitting a week. To her shock, they agreed eagerly, bringing clothes, food, and kindness. Where pride had lived, humility and gratitude took root.
Still, fear gnawed at her. The due date loomed, and beyond helpers, she had no income, no security.
Then a parcel arrived—brand-new baby clothes, a pram, bedding. A message followed on Facebook from a woman named Claire:
“Dear Emily, mutual friends shared your story. These are just temporary struggles. I work for a London firm and can spare £200 monthly to help. Please, as a fellow believer, pray for me and my late mother, Margaret. With gratitude for the life you’ve chosen to keep.”
Tears pricked Emily’s eyes. The doorbell rang—her old schoolmate, Tom, with a flustered Frenchman in tow.
“Em, this poor bloke’s here on business, and his English is rough. But he’s brilliant—needs documents translated. I bragged about your language skills. Fancy earning some extra cash before the baby comes?”
That evening, over tea, Emily played Lily’s stunning singing performance. “What’s impossible for man is possible with God,” she said in flawless French, unaware she’d just secured freelance translation work for years.
Later, she crossed out the entire resource list—save one word: God.
For if He gives a child, He’ll also provide.
