I named her Hope before she was even born.
The months passed slowly. I worked part-time at a small bookstore, saved every penny, and read every book I could find on parenting. My friends dropped off one by one—except for Ella, my childhood best friend. She came to every doctor’s appointment, helped me put together the crib I bought secondhand, and painted clouds on the nursery walls.
“You’re going to be the best mom in the world,” she told me as she hugged me tight, wiping paint on my cheek.
I laughed through tears. “I hope I can be.”
And then came the night Hope arrived.
It was storming again—just like the night Michael left me.
