Tragedy Strikes

The young mother stared at her newborn, enraptured in the tiny, wrinkled hands, the fuzzy clump of hair, the huge glassy green eyes. He lay on the hospital sheet like an angel on an iron rack. He didn’t cry though; he just stared thoughtfully at her. The father was driving in from his practice, unable to get away from the barrage of flu-shot-needing. runny-nose kids that came with the onslaught of winter. So for now, the room was quiet except for his breathing. His forehead looked a little large, but she still kissed it lovingly. She didn’t notice the doctors outside, their foreheads creased with worry, or the nurses with the pursed lips, carrying test result after test result from lab to lab. The mother finally looked up as a young female doctor entered.
“Mrs. Sacco, I’m afraid there’s a problem with your baby,” she said bluntly. She had never been much of a people-person.
“What?” she said, looking shocked and heartbreaking.
“Well…your baby has Down Syndrome.”
Mrs. Sacco was too shocked to cry.

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