When the test results came in, Emily felt her heart tighten with pity. Inside her grew a tiny human—perhaps a girl, fair-haired with a mischievous smile. But fear and despair drowned those thoughts. She boarded a crowded bus to the clinic. At the stop, stepping off, she nearly stumbled in the rush. Suddenly, something slipped from her shoulder. She gasped—the strap of her handbag had been slashed. Thieves had taken everything: money, documents, the test results.
Tears choked her, but there was nothing to be done. Emily went home. Some tests had to be retaken, others recovered. The second time, leaving the bus, she tripped and bruised her leg badly. Pain shot through her, and a superstitious dread stirred in her heart: “If I go a third time, I might not make it at all.” That’s when she decided—the child would stay. The fear eased, and her heart felt lighter.
The pregnancy was smooth. The scan confirmed it—a girl. Emily already imagined her name: Lily. But at the next scan, the doctors stunned her: they suspected Down’s syndrome.
“You’ll need an amniocentesis, a test of the amniotic fluid,” the doctor said, scribbling a referral. “But I must warn you—it’s risky. It could cause a miscarriage or infection.”
With a heavy heart, Emily agreed.
On the day of the procedure, she and James arrived at the clinic. He waited in the corridor, nervously fidgeting with his keys. Emily, legs trembling, stepped into the room. The doctor connected the monitor to listen to the baby’s heartbeat. It raced so fast it seemed ready to burst.
“Let’s wait,” the doctor decided. “We’ll give you magnesium to calm it.”
Emily was sent back to the corridor. She sat there, gripping her hands, while James tried to reassure her. Half an hour later, she was called in again. The heartbeat had steadied, but the baby had turned—back-facing, making the test impossible.
“We’ll wait a bit longer,” the doctor sighed. “Maybe she’ll move.”
The third time, everything was perfect: the baby turned, the heartbeat was steady. Emily’s stomach was swabbed with iodine. The heat was unbearable, the clinic window wide open for air. The nurse lifted a tray of instruments—just as a pigeon shot into the room. The bird, frantic with panic, flapped wildly, crashing into walls, swooping at people. The nurse shrieked; the tray clattered to the floor, tools scattering everywhere.
Emily was sent out again. James, hearing the commotion, jumped up.
“What happened?”
“A pigeon flew in—it’s chaos in there,” she replied, feeling her insides turn to ice.
“Em, it’s a sign,” he murmured. “Let’s go home.”
They left without looking back.
Right on time, Emily gave birth to a girl. They named her Lily—pale, cheeky, with bright eyes. She was ten years old when Emily, watching her grin, remembered that day at the clinic. The pigeon, like an angel, had burst into their lives to stop a mistake. Lily was healthy, and every laugh reminded Emily: fate had chosen for them.
Yet a shadow of fear lingered in her heart. What if she hadn’t heeded the signs? What if the pigeon hadn’t flown in? She held Lily tighter, love for her daughter smothering every doubt. Life wasn’t easier, money still slipped away, but Lily—their little miracle—was worth every trial.
