Yet…
When he was born, the doctors warned me not to get my hopes up, said it would be a miracle if he lived more than three months. Three months came and went, and they extended the deadline to a year. Then it was two years. Then it was five years. Noah kept right on keeping on, oblivious to their deadlines and doubts.
I pushed long blond hair out of his face, and he turned to me in his sleep, putting his arm around my waist, snuggling up to me like he’d done as a small boy. After what we’d been through—the meth-baby rages, the darkness in his soul, the deafness, the health problems, the insecurities, his mother’s rejection and her unexpected death a couple of years back…after we had fought so hard to get to where we were…surely God wouldn’t let it end badly.
Surely God wouldn’t take my boy from me.
Surely…
The possibility squeezed my insides into a painful knot.
Yes…a small, still voice said in the back of my mind.
But…
What if?