And the most painful part was that our daughters were growing up inside those fears, believing that something was missing in them.
That night, we cried for a long time. Without blaming each other, without shouting, without reopening old wounds. Just two people who had lived in the same house for years, but were speaking honestly for the first time.
A few months later, our sixth daughter was born.
When the nurse placed her in Michael’s arms, the whole room went silent.
He looked at the baby’s face and began to cry.
His hands were trembling, but he held her so gently, as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
“Welcome home, princess…”
Then he kissed her forehead.
Later, when our five daughters came in to see their baby sister, they stood around the bed, excited and whispering, as if they were afraid to wake the miracle.
