Emily bit back tears, refusing to let them ruin the day. She straightened her jumper over her growing belly and pushed her son’s wheelchair forward as she opened the café door.
It was just another Sunday—the day when mums from Manchester with disabled children gathered at the café for a breather from endless therapies and battles for their kids’ basic needs. They’d organised this little escape themselves, no sponsors or charities involved. The *Beanstalk Café* closed exclusively for them, offering free tea, cakes, and karaoke, courtesy of the owner. For a few hours, these mums shed their burdens, laughing, singing, and joking like any other young women.
Emily never missed it, even on days she barely had the strength to move. It was her safe space, where no explanations were needed. But today, she sat in silence, unsure how to tell her friends she was pregnant—and that her husband had walked out, declaring the load too heavy. A second child shouldn’t be born, he’d said, not when their first had cerebral palsy. But Emily refused an abortion, and now, three months later, her husband was with another woman while she scraped together fuel money just to get here.
“Alright, out with it—what’s wrong?” Charlotte Newman perched beside her, effortlessly poised, strong, and kind. Her daughter, Sophie, was also in a wheelchair, yet thanks to her mother’s love, she’d won singing competitions worldwide and lived brightly. Emily nearly dissolved into self-pity, but Charlotte cut her off.
“Say no more. He left? Well, that’s his loss. Now—what *do* you have left? What can actually help you raise those kids?”
“Nothing,” Emily sniffled.
“Nonsense. God’s still here, isn’t He? He helps through people—remember that? Take the mic. We’ll sing, drink tea, and tonight, you’ll think properly. And—read that therapist Murray’s piece on resources. Google it. 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 wrapped cakes for her to take home, and for once, the silence of her empty flat didn’t sting.
*Resources, resources…* That night, after tucking in her son and melting at his whispered, “Mum, I love you—we’ll manage,” she sat down to list what she *did* have.
There it was. First—no, *second*—was God, who’d never left. Then her 11-year-old, wheelchair-bound but sharp-minded, with a heart too big for his body. He’d help with the baby; he already inspired her.
But the list ran short. She barely slept.
Morning came hard, but skipping Sunday service—especially now—was unthinkable. “Lord, Lord!” she pleaded silently in her favourite Manchester church. The vicar, who’d once dreamed of building a rehab centre for disabled children here, approached her after mass with groceries donated by parishioners.
“This is for you and your boy, Emily,” he murmured, pressing a bag into her hands. “When the baby comes, Mrs. Harris—lives near you—will drop off food and mind the kids if needed. What else can we do?”
Emily hesitated, studying his kind face.
“Speak up, Emily. People avoid suffering because they don’t know *how* to help. Think on it, then come by for tea.”
That’s how she learned good souls outnumber the rotten—if only they’re *shown* how to help. Swallowing pride, she asked friends for babysitting hours. To her shock, they leapt at the chance, delivering clothes and food too. In place of pride grew quiet gratitude.
So she added to her list: *God, my son, my church, loyal friends.*
Still, fear gnawed. The due date neared, and beyond helpers, she had no income, no security.
The next day, a massive parcel arrived—new designer baby clothes, a pram, linens. On Facebook, a message waited from a woman named Olivia:
*Dear Emily, I hope these help. Mutual friends shared your story—though “struggle” fits better than “tragedy.” I work for a London firm and can send £200 monthly to your bank. It’s not much, but it’ll keep you afloat. As a fellow believer, I’d cherish your prayers for me and my late mother, Catherine. Thank you for choosing life.*
Emily’s hands shook. Tears pricked her eyes—until the doorbell rang. A friend had come to take her son out; they’d set up a rota for babysitting.
This time, her old classmate, Tom, ushered in a flustered man.
“Em, meet Antoine—French, brilliant, awful accent. On a work trip. Since you’ve three months till the baby, help us translate some documents? I’ve bored him senseless about your languages degree. So—here he is!”
That evening, after hashing out details with Antoine and Tom, Emily poured tea and played Sophie Newman’s breathtaking singing on the kitchen radio.
“With God, nothing’s impossible. Right, Antoine?” she said in flawless French, unaware this freelance translation gig would sustain her for years.
Later, she crossed out all resources in her notebook—except one. *God.* If He’d given her a child, He’d provide for the child too.
