From Pain Came Love: I Thank God for Sending Me James!
My name is Anna Smith, and I live in the charming town of Stratford-upon-Avon, nestled along the banks of the River Avon. From a young age, I was enamored with children—I could spend hours watching them play in the park, dreaming of the day I’d have a child of my own. By the time I turned 25, this dream felt almost tangible. I’d often stop and watch children running, laughing, and getting back up after a fall, with a longing to be a mother.
Max was my first serious relationship. We made plans, talked about our future, and when I discovered I was pregnant, joy overwhelmed me like a wave. I could already picture our little family, our home, and our baby. However, for him, the news was a shock. He turned pale, shut down, and then simply packed his things and left our shared flat. I was left alone—abandoned, with a baby on the way and no farewell. I never saw him again. Night after night, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Thoughts buzzed in my mind like bees: abortion, adoption, or raising the child alone. I immediately dismissed the first two options—I couldn’t betray myself like that. The third option terrified me, as I knew I’d face my parents’ judgment and constant nagging, but I was ready to fight.
They say the morning is wiser than the evening, and it brought me hope. That day, as I headed to work with a heavy heart, James crossed my path at the entrance. He was my neighbor—a tall, kind guy who had made it clear he liked me. I often caught his warm, lingering glances and saw him rush to help with my bags when I returned from shopping. Usually, I’d pass by with a quick “hi,” but that morning, I stopped. We started talking. He asked about Max, and for reasons I still don’t understand, I poured everything out to him—the pain, the fear, the loneliness. That evening, he was waiting for me with a red rose in hand, and a month later, we got married. I wasn’t keen on a wedding—it felt hypocritical, but James insisted: “Everything will be fine, trust me.”
My husband was a treasure—kind, intelligent, caring, with a heart of gold. But I didn’t love him. When our daughter, Katie, was born, he worked wonders: in just four days, he transformed our home into a fairytale, renovating everything himself, and set up her room like something out of a child’s dream. Friends helped him, and I saw the pride in his eyes. Something stirred in me, a warmth spread through my chest, but that magic spark was still absent. James fought for my heart, tirelessly surrounding me with care, but I remained as cold as ice.
Then life dealt us another blow. Our son was born—weak, ill, with a grave diagnosis. The doctors looked at us with pity: “Let him go, it’s for the best.” I looked into James’s eyes and saw the same fear tearing at my soul. We refused, holding onto each other like a lifeline. But a week later, our baby passed away. That night, we cried together—he held me and whispered that maybe our son had gone to a place free of pain. This loss shattered us but bonded us more tightly than I could have imagined. That night, I felt for the first time that I loved him—not just respected or was grateful, but truly loved with all my heart. Love was born from our pain, like a phoenix from the ashes.
Then, as if miraculously, came our boys—two lively, bright whirlwinds. Our home is now filled with laughter, warmth, and life. I’m madly in love with James, the father of my children, my savior. He entered my life when I was falling into an abyss and pulled me into the light. I believe God sent him to me so that we would journey through tears together and await the day we might cradle grandchildren. Every morning, I look at him and think: thank you for being here. Thank you for not giving up. Out of our sorrow grew happiness—true and unbreakable as stone. And I know: with him, I’m ready to face anything.
