Late one night, after a long shift, I pulled off the highway to check on something by the side of the road. I saw a woman waving weakly. She looked young, dressed in a flowing, brightly colored dress and a scarf wrapped around her head. She looked like a fortune teller or someone from a traveling show.
When I stopped, she asked for help. “It’s my baby… she’s coming…” she said, wincing. It was clear she was in labor. I kneeled beside her, trying to stay calm. I hadn’t delivered a baby in years, but there was no time to get her to a hospital. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Miranda,” she replied, clearly in pain.
I helped her through the contractions, and soon, I delivered a healthy baby girl. Once the baby was wrapped in a towel, I offered to take them to a hospital, but Miranda refused. She explained she had left her husband and didn’t want to be found. I could sense she was scared and didn’t have anywhere else to go.
I live alone with my six-year-old daughter, Sarah, after my wife passed away. I knew I couldn’t just leave Miranda on the street, so I offered her shelter for a few days. She was grateful and told me about her past in fortune-telling at fairs.
The next morning, I woke up to find Sarah’s bed empty. I panicked, and when I checked Miranda’s room, I found my daughter asleep next to Miranda and her newborn. Miranda explained that Sarah had been upset during the night, so she stayed with her to comfort her. I was touched by the gesture and invited Miranda to stay longer, thinking it might help both Sarah and me.
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