“What if she’s just meant to be our miracle baby?” The moment my husband said those words to me, my whole world shifted for a second. He didn’t mean any harm in it. I understood why he said it. But it felt so heavy.
In many ways, our daughter is our miracle baby—as all babies are—but she had to fight a little extra to get and stay here, and we are amazed by the tiny angel staring back at us every day.
But this day, it wasn’t about that. It came at the tail end of finding out we had another pregnancy end far too soon. Another loss. Another rainbow baby who would never make it earthside.
We have been through this before. Just six months ago, we suffered our first miscarriage that rocked our world in the worst ways. This isn’t entirely new territory, but it hit different this time. Maybe because we had successfully made it to our first appointment. Maybe because I didn’t feel it coming. Maybe because the doctor told us it would be rare for me to suffer a second consecutive loss. Until we did.
Somehow through the blur, there are some things I remember vividly. I remember my husband, normally the voice of calm and reason, angrily telling the doctor, “But you told us this shouldn’t happen a second time.” I remember him banging a cabinet on his way out as he tried to wrap his head around how he was supposed to guide his helpless wife through this—again.
I remember the gentle, timid ultrasound tech slipping me out a side door so I didn’t have to go back into a waiting room filled with baby bellies and eager parents-to-be.
I remember standing with my husband next to a parked car, ignoring the fact that someone was sitting in its driver’s seat, letting out a gut-wrenching sob and desperately trying to catch my breath. I remember it raining, something that seemed so unbelievably fitting.
I remember a silent ride to my parents’ house to pick up our daughter—the innocent little girl we were anxiously waiting to give a “big sister” shirt to. That shirt has been in our closet for months, waiting to be worn.
And I remember it hitting me then, long before my husband said the words I was too afraid to speak aloud: What if our daughter is our miracle baby? What if, after all this rain, the rainbow never comes?
It’s a hard thought to grasp. I was—and still am—desperate to be a mom again. I want more than anything to give my little girl a sibling. No one in the world would make a better big sister, and I want to give that to her. I think about it every single time I watch her.
I was hesitant to let so much time slip by when I always thought I wanted to have children close together. She needed to be our only child for a time, but now she is ready and deserves to be a big sister.
There aren’t many things I’ve been completely sure of in this life, but having a family has always been one of them. I’ve always wanted a house full of babies, and kids running wild. And while we’ve had setbacks and had to pivot and think more realistically, that dream has never changed.
Now we are staring reality in the face, realizing that no matter how much you want something or how hard you try, some things aren’t in the cards. This is one of the few things I cannot control, which is a struggle for me.
So for now, we wait and pray. We pray for the little life we lost, and we wait for the chance to try again. We look at the miracle baby we already created who is growing into a bright and beautiful little girl before our eyes. We give her our all, even on the days we have nothing left to give, because that’s what she deserves. We remind ourselves that this too shall pass, and we have faith there’s a rainbow waiting for us on the other side.
by Alaina V. Fletcher 
by Jenny Albers 
