It was February 2025, and our family had just returned from Japan and the Philippines. I thought the worst thing we were dealing with was the flu that had taken over our home.
My husband had seven days of diarrhea. My daughter, Amos, had a fever for three days. I had been coughing for over a week, unable to sleep. It felt like our entire house was falling apart.
Then, after a long night, I took Amos to the Emergency Department (ED). She was monitored for vomiting, and when she was finally settled, a familiar face appeared—it was a friend of mine, a doctor at the hospital.
He suggested an X-ray to rule out pneumonia. But before that, he said something that made me freeze.
“Let’s do a pregnancy test—it’s standard procedure.”
I felt nervous. Why did I feel nervous?
The test came back positive.
I was shocked. This pregnancy wasn’t planned. It wasn’t like the others, where I knew exactly when it had happened. But suddenly, the reality hit—I was pregnant again.
Fear and excitement tangled inside me. Ezra’s hospital memories rushed back. But I tried to stay hopeful. I even bought a bassinet. My children were over the moon. Every night, they prayed:
“God, please don’t let this baby die.”
It was so direct. Their words carried both faith and fear. They knew what it meant to lose someone they loved.
A week later, I felt a sharp pain. Then, a faint pale pink stain on my underwear. My heart sank—I just knew.
At the ED, my HCG levels had dropped. It wasn’t good.
The next morning, my son, Zion, ran up to me and said, “Mum, let’s check the baby!” He was referring to the baby tracking app we had been using.
I broke. I sobbed.
“I don’t think the baby’s going to make it,” I told him.
My children sobbed too. “Why, Mum? Why again?”
I had no words.
I thought this baby was God giving us another chance, a gift, a sign that He was restoring what was lost. But instead, I was facing loss all over again.
The next morning, after passing clots and an ultrasound that showed nothing, I had to tell my kids the truth.
“The baby is gone.”
“Why?” they asked again.
At that moment, I made a choice. Instead of speaking my truth—my pain, my confusion, my unanswered questions—I spoke God’s truth.
And that was the moment I knew—I needed to write this book.
I needed to give families a way to talk about grief, about loss, about the unknown. Not with perfect words, because there aren’t any. But with a reminder that even when we don’t have answers, we can trust the One who does.
And that’s Hope for the Unknown.
