Becoming a mother was a long-awaited dream for me, one that was finally coming true. Yet, the joy of expecting my baby was marred by my husband David’s unexpected business trip and the arrival of a doula who turned out to be connected to my past in ways I could never have imagined.

David and I had tried for years to conceive, and the heartache of failed attempts had been a heavy burden. So when I finally saw those two lines on the pregnancy test, the joy was immense. I was eager to welcome this child into the world, determined to give them all the love I had received from my adoptive parents, despite the pain of learning about my adoption.

We planned for a partner birth, and David’s presence during the delivery was something I had looked forward to. But when David came home one evening looking exhausted and troubled, I sensed something was wrong.

“David, what’s going on?” I asked, trying to catch a glimpse of what was bothering him.

He hesitated before finally revealing, “I’ve been assigned a business trip in ten days. I’ll be gone for two weeks to a month, and I’m worried about missing the birth.”

My heart sank at the thought of him not being there. “Can’t you refuse?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“I can’t, it’s a crucial opportunity for my career,” he explained.

Understanding his point, I was still anxious about the birth. David then reassured me that he had found a doula named Martha to support me in his absence. Though hesitant, I agreed to meet her, hoping to ease my anxiety.

Two days later, I arrived at the café where I was to meet Martha. The café was cozy, and the smell of coffee was comforting. Martha, an older woman in her 50s with a warm smile, greeted me. Our conversation was pleasant and reassuring. Martha’s experience and empathy gave me hope.

At the end of our meeting, I noticed her looking intently at the birthmark on my shoulder, but I thought little of it.

As the due date approached, Martha’s presence became a comforting constant. She visited frequently, helping around the house and preparing for the baby’s arrival. Her support was invaluable, and I felt a deep sense of trust in her.

David’s return was imminent, and I hoped he would make it before labor began. One afternoon, as Martha and I were checking my hospital bag, I felt a sudden realization—my water had broken. Panic set in, and Martha quickly guided me to the couch, instructing me to breathe.

During the labor, Martha’s repeated use of my birth name, Amber, caught my attention. “What did you call me?” I asked, confused.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sheila. Just a slip,” Martha said quickly.

I pressed her, sensing something was off. “When I was born, my name was Amber. Don’t tell me this is a coincidence.”

Martha’s face grew serious. “Sheila, it’s just a coincidence.”

“What happened to the baby you mentioned?” I asked, my voice rising.

“I gave her up for adoption,” Martha replied quietly.

My heart raced. “It was me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Martha admitted, tears in her eyes.

I felt a whirlwind of emotions. “How long have you known?”

“Since our first meeting when I saw your birthmark,” she said, her voice filled with regret.

“You abandoned me!” I yelled.

“I was young and didn’t have the means to care for you,” Martha cried. “I wanted to, but my parents wouldn’t let me. I held you for a moment before you were taken away.”

I struggled to process the revelation. “So now what? Do you expect me to forgive you?”

“I can’t change the past, but I want to support you and your baby now,” Martha said, her voice pleading.

Despite my anger, I needed to focus on the labor. Martha’s help with breathing techniques was essential, and I tried to push aside my feelings as contractions intensified.

Hours later, with Martha by my side, I finally heard my baby’s first cry. The doctor placed my daughter on my chest, and I looked at Martha, who was watching with tears in her eyes.

David arrived just in time to see his daughter, and the joy we felt was overwhelming. I knew I had to tell him everything, but for now, our focus was on the baby.

In the weeks that followed, Martha continued to visit, offering support and help with the baby. I had many unresolved feelings about her, but I appreciated her efforts to make amends.

One evening, as Martha held my daughter, I said, “I’m not sure I can ever fully forgive you, but I appreciate what you’re doing for us now.”

“Thank you, Sheila. That means a lot,” Martha replied, her eyes filled with gratitude.

Our journey wasn’t perfect or easy, but we were finding our way. The past was a part of us, but the future was full of possibilities. I was determined to make the most of it for my daughter and build a new chapter with those who mattered most.