Emily tried to swallow her tears, not wanting to ruin the gathering. She adjusted her jumper over her growing bump and pushed her son’s wheelchair through the café door.
It was just another Sunday—the day when mums from Brighton with disabled kids met up at the café to take a breather from endless therapies and battles for their children’s dignity. They’d organised these little breaks themselves, no charities or sponsors involved. The *Bean & Brew* closed specially for them, and the owner made sure tired mums got free tea, cakes, and a turn at karaoke. For a few hours, they weren’t just carers—they were just women again, laughing, singing, and teasing each other.
Emily always went, even on the days she could barely move. It was her safe place, where people *got* her. But tonight, she sat quietly, unsure how to tell the others she was pregnant—and that her husband had walked out, saying he couldn’t handle it. A second child shouldn’t be born, not when their first had cerebral palsy. But Emily refused to end the pregnancy, and now, three months on, her husband was living with another woman while she barely had enough petrol money to get here.
“Alright, spill—what’s going on?” Sarah Wilkins plopped down beside her, all energy and warmth. Despite her daughter Lily being in a wheelchair too, Sarah never let it crush her spirit, and Lily—bright, musical Lily—had won talent shows all over the country.
Emily almost crumpled into self-pity, but Sarah cut her off. “Right. He left? Well, good riddance. Tell me this—what *do* you have? What’s actually going to help you raise these kids?”
“Nothing,” Emily sniffled.
“Rubbish! God’s still there, isn’t He? Even now. And He helps through people—ever heard that one? Here, take the mic. We’ll sing, drink tea, and later you’ll sit down and think properly. Oh, and google that article by that therapist, Dr. Hart—the one about resources. It’ll help. There’s *always* a way, Em. You don’t throw away a miracle.”
So Emily sang. Laughed, even. Volunteers from a local charity played with her son, and they sent her home with a box of cakes. For once, the silence in her flat didn’t feel heavy.
*Resources, resources…* That night, after tucking her son in—his sleepy *”Mum, I love you, we’ll figure it out”* echoing in her chest—she sat down to list what she *did* have.
First—no, *second*—there was God. Then there was her eleven-year-old, wheelchair or not, sharp as a tack and kinder than most. He’d help with the baby, she knew it.
But the list felt short. Too short. She barely slept.
Morning came too soon, but she dragged herself to Sunday service at her local church in Brighton. *”God, God…”* was all she could pray. The vicar—a kind man who’d once dreamed of building a rehab centre for disabled kids—noticed her. After mass, he handed her bags of food donated by parishioners.
“This is for you and your boy, love,” he said softly. “Mrs. Thompson down your road will bring more once the baby’s here. She’ll mind the kids if you need. Tell us what else we can do.”
Emily just stared, overwhelmed.
“Don’t stay quiet, love. People want to help—they just need to know *how*.”
So she learned. Swallowed her pride, asked friends to babysit just a few hours a week. To her surprise, they jumped at the chance—bringing meals, clothes, even petrol vouchers. Pride gave way to gratitude.
She added to her list: *God. My son. The church. Friends.*
Still, fear gnawed at her. The due date loomed, and she had no income, no real safety net.
Then, the next day, a massive parcel arrived—brand-new baby clothes, a pram, bedding. And a Facebook message from a woman named Claire:
*”Dear Emily, I hope these help. Friends told me your situation—though ‘situation’ makes it sound temporary, doesn’t it? I work for a big firm in London and can spare £200 a month. Should keep you afloat. Just pray for me, yeah? And my late mum, Margaret. Thank you for choosing life.”*
Emily’s hands shook. Tears burned her eyes.
The doorbell rang—another friend, here to take her son to the park. They’d made a rota, taking turns to help.
This time, though, her old schoolmate Dave shoved a flustered man inside. “Em, meet Pierre—French bloke, here for work. Bit of a speech thing, but he’s brilliant. Needs documents translated. Thought of you straightaway—linguist genius, single mum, all that. Reckon you two can help each other out?”
That evening, over tea, with Lily Wilkins’ angelic singing playing in the background, Emily chatted with Pierre in fluent French.
“With God, nothing’s impossible. Right, Pierre?”
She didn’t know it yet, but she’d just landed a steady freelance gig—translating technical manuals through her maternity leave.
Later, in her room, she crossed out everything on her list except one word:
*God.*
If He’d given her a child, He’d provide for that child too.
