Hope doesn’t always arrive with trumpets. Sometimes it slips in on a soft whimper, gathers itself, and grows into a cry that changes everything.
Months later, Rachel watched her boys in the backyard. David had set up a miniature “dino tour,” complete with cardboard cave and hand-drawn maps. He bounced the baby gently on his hip and pointed at the shrubs. “Secret hideout number one,” he said solemnly. The baby gurgled, delighted. Rachel laughed and wiped her eyes.
