After leaving the maternity ward, my parents told us, “Don’t expect any more help from us.” But we chose love over fear.
I’m a nurse by profession. Since 1990, I’d worked at a regional maternity hospital in Manchester. The job was tough, the shifts exhausting, but I always knew why I did it—so that one day, I could walk those halls not as a medic, but as a mother, there to welcome my own child.
The pregnancy went smoothly. All the tests showed our little girl was developing perfectly. My husband, James, and I eagerly prepared for her arrival—buying a crib, tiny clothes, everything for the day we’d take her home. Our families were just as excited, especially my father-in-law. He kept calling, promising an expensive gift for the big day. “Everything alright?” he’d ask. “Any updates?”
We had no idea that after the birth, our entire world would change. Everything we thought was solid would crumble, and love would face its hardest test.
The birth itself was quick. Our girl arrived weighing 6 pounds 6 ounces, 18 inches long—small but strong. They showed her to me right away before taking her for checks. Later, they brought her back for her first feed—she was a bit sluggish, but we managed. Then they moved us to a recovery room. An hour later, two doctors walked in—the on-call obstetrician and a neonatologist. Their faces were tense, their eyes pitying. I knew instantly—something was wrong.
One of them spoke softly.
“Emily, your daughter has Down syndrome. You’re a medical professional; you understand this is a lifelong condition. We suggest you save yourself the heartache and consider relinquishing her. You’re young—you could still have a healthy child.”
My breath stopped. The walls seemed to sway. Everything inside me shattered—and then, just as quickly, something fierce and instinctive rose up. *This is my daughter. Mine.* And I wasn’t giving her up.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, “but I need to speak to my husband. I think… he’ll say no.”
“Of course. Take your time. Come find us when you’ve decided.”
After they left, my baby started crying. Her tiny hands reached for me. I held her close, and in that second, I knew—I couldn’t live without her.
I called James. Within an hour, he was by my side. Together, we went to the head doctor’s office. They asked him, too, to sign the relinquishment papers. He stayed silent, then walked over to the changing table, looked at our little girl, and said quietly, “We’re not signing anything. We’re taking her home.”
We named her Rose—soft, bright, unbreakable.
Three days later, another woman was placed in our room. In her thirties, this was her fifth pregnancy. The moment she arrived, she said, “I’m not keeping it.” When they told her the baby had Down syndrome, she didn’t flinch. Just said, “Process the paperwork. And I’m not breastfeeding.”
I couldn’t bear it. I asked the nurse if I could feed the baby. She brought her in. The second I held her, my heart ached—she was so small, so quiet, like she already understood.
I called James. He was quiet, then said, “If you want to… let’s take her too. Rose should have a sister.”
I went back to the head doctor. Told her we’d take the second baby. No one called us crazy—instead, the entire staff hugged me, saying, “You’re our hero.”
We stayed another week, waiting for the second baby’s umbilical stump to fall off. We named her Lily.
The day we left the hospital was the happiest of our lives. We walked out not with one child, but two—Rose in one pram, Lily in the other. Both ours. Both loved.
But not everyone shared our joy. When we told our parents we’d adopted a second child—one with Down syndrome—their reaction was ice-cold. My parents, especially my in-laws, said, “We won’t be part of this. You made your choice—deal with it alone. Don’t expect any help from us.”
And they meant it—not a single call, not a penny of support. We were on our own.
Those years were hard. Sleepless nights, illnesses, exhaustion. But it was all worth it. We loved those girls more than anything, watched them grow into bright, joyful little souls, learning their ABCs by six, trying to read on their own. We even moved closer to a specialist school to give Rose the best opportunities.
Years later, our parents realised they’d been wrong. They started visiting, bit by bit. The girls adored having them around, thrilled at every visit.
We didn’t hold a grudge. We chose love, not fear. And we’ve never regretted it for a second.
