I’ll never forget that morning. It was 5:30 am, and I couldn’t sleep. I was restless — tossing, turning. I think, maybe, it was God, urging me to wake, like an eager child wakes their parents on Christmas morning. “Come and see what I have done!” I think he must’ve said.

I’ll never forget the way it happened. Standing above the test, the second line wasn’t visible. And so, I reached down to throw it away, like I’d done so many times before. That’s when a faint, pink line caught my eye. I stopped, my heart catching in my throat, and I sat on the bathroom floor for the next 10 minutes, watching that line as if my life depended on it. And after 10 minutes, that second line was still there, barely visible, and I kicked open the door, calling for your dad.

“I think there’s a second line!” I said, and he sprung out of bed. We sat there on the bathroom floor, where all I’d ever known was heartbreak, rejoicing like we’d never done before. It wasn’t the loud, glitzy kind. In fact, it was almost silent. We just stared at each other, and then at the test, and then back at each other, our minds racing with disbelief, our hearts spilling with gratitude, our souls bursting with praise to a God who had heard our cries.

You see, my precious baby, that morning was never a guarantee. I dreamed about it. I hoped for it. But I never knew if it would actually come.

Your dad and I, we fought for you. We weren’t expecting the battle we were given. It was the hardest fight our two-year-old marriage had seen. But I think you’d be proud of how we fought it, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that we fought it together.

We learned how to lean on each other. We learned how to pray for each another. We learned each other’s deepest insecurities and darkest vulnerabilities, and we learned to let those guide us into grace rather than hurt.

We petitioned God for you. We asked, over and over and over again, until our prayers were shrill cries, then desperate whispers.

Time chipped away at our strength, and diagnoses chipped away at our confidence. We put away the baby books and hid the list of names. We stopped counting the months.

But I want you to know that we never stopped hoping for you. Your creator assured us we’d meet you, and we believed that somehow, someday we would. It’s just that the path there was unmarked, and so much of the time, we felt we were fumbling through the darkness.

I see now that we weren’t fumbling at all. We were being led — we were being grown.

I am confident, little one, that we will never be perfect parents to you — but we will be the parents God prepared for you. I pray that helps sustain us on the sleepless nights and tired days.

I pray that when the going gets tough, we look back to that girl and that boy, holding hands in the doctor’s office, and we touch their heavy hearts, even if just for a moment, to remember how it felt, to remember the gift we’ve been given.

For me, this joyous news will always be marked with a touch of sadness for the hearts that are still breaking and the souls that are still aching. I hope you know that I see you, and I am petitioning for you. May you be filled with peace and hope, and may you always know that God walks with you, illuminating the darkness.