Proof The Bible Is True

“Be sure to look at the sonogram picture that accompanies the article.” Admin

 

On Halloween afternoon, I sat at work, daydreaming: little Liam dressed up as pumpkin, going door to door in his stroller, my neighbors saying, How adorable…

 

I stole a peek at the sonogram photo I kept in my purse, still finding it hard to believe that this blurry black-and-white peanut was my son. For nearly two years, my life had been consumed with infertility treatments, pills, nightly injections, and surgeries.

 

Even at this point, there was a high risk of losing the baby. My doctor monitored me closely. But the day before, the start of my second trimester, my husband, Brian, and I had learned our baby’s sex: a boy!

 

We had the name picked out. We were still waiting for more test results to come back, but I couldn’t help dreaming: Christmas morning, Easter egg hunts, his first day of school—I couldn’t wait to do it all with my little Liam.

 

The phone rang, a number I recognized. The doctor. I hesitated, afraid, then grabbed the receiver.

 

“Ms. Mahony, I’m calling about your results,” a nurse said. “The blood work came out positive.” Positive? For what? Was that good? I barely remembered the list of things the test screened for. Genetic disorders? Down syndrome? “Is there something wrong with my baby?” I asked.

 

“We need to get you here tomorrow for another sonogram,” the nurse said, keeping her voice neutral. “The doctor will be able to tell you more after that.”

 

Read More: A Very Positive Sign