When I took in a stranded fortune teller and her newborn, I thought I was just offering shelter. But the next morning, my own daughter disappeared from her room.
It was late when I pulled off the highway, my eyes heavy after a long shift. Up ahead, something lay on the side of the road. As my headlights swept over it, I saw a woman, waving weakly.
A pregnant woman on the side of the road | Source: Midjourney
I slowed down, my doctor instincts kicking in. She looked young and wore a bright scarf wrapped around her head. Her dress was flowing, with patterns and colors that almost glowed under the car’s lights. She looked like she was a fortune teller on a fairground, or maybe a traveling show.
“Help me,” she gasped as I got out and approached.
A man helping a woman | Source: Midjourney
“Are you hurt?” I asked, moving closer.
She shook her head, wincing. “No… not hurt. I—” she grimaced, clutching her stomach. “It’s my baby… she’s coming…”
It took me a second to process, but then I saw the unmistakable signs. She was in labor, and the contractions looked close.
A shocked man on the side of the road | Source: Midjourney
“Alright, stay calm,” I said, kneeling beside her. “I’m a doctor. Let’s get you through this, okay?”
I glanced around, but we were alone. I hadn’t delivered a baby in years, not since my residency. Still, I had to do something. There wasn’t time to get her anywhere else.
“What’s your name?” I asked, trying to keep her calm.
“Miranda,” she whispered, then cried out, another wave of pain washing over her.
A woman grimacing in pain | Source: Midjourney
The contractions came faster, and she grabbed my hand, squeezing hard. I guided her through each one, urging her to stay focused. Soon enough, I could see the baby’s head crowning.
“Almost there, Miranda,” I said. “One more big push. You’ve got this.”
She took a deep breath, pushed, and moments later, I held a tiny, squirming newborn in my hands. The baby let out a weak cry, and I felt a rush of relief. Wrapping the little girl in the towel, I handed her to Miranda.
A man holding a newborn baby | Source: Midjourney
I took a deep breath, glancing around the empty road. “Do you need to get to a hospital?”
“No,” she replied quickly, her eyes darting away. “I mean… I don’t… I can’t go to a hospital. I… I left my husband.” She hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. “He… wasn’t kind to me. I ran away. I’m afraid the hospital will give me away.”
A scared woman on the side of the road | Source: Midjourney
I nodded, sensing she was holding back details. “Alright. Do you have somewhere to go?”
She shook her head slowly, looking down at her baby, her expression a mixture of fear and love. “No. I just… I thought I’d figure it out. But then… the baby came early.”
For a moment, I hesitated. I lived alone with my six-year-old daughter after my wife passed away from cancer. Just us and our nanny. But this woman… she needed help.
A man deep in thought | Source: Midjourney
“I have a guest room,” I said, hearing the words leave my mouth before I’d really thought it through. “You and your daughter can stay for a few days. Just until you get back on your feet. Then, you will have to go to the hospital.”
Miranda’s eyes filled with tears, and she managed a small smile. “Really? I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Thank you will do,” I replied, giving her a reassuring nod. “Come on, let’s get you both out of the cold.”
A man walking to his car | Source: Midjourney
Back at my house, I set Miranda up in the guest room, showing her where she and her baby could rest. She seemed grateful, though clearly exhausted, cradling her newborn as she took in the large room.
“I used to work fairs,” she explained. “Fortune telling, palm reading… that sort of thing. It wasn’t much, but it kept food on the table.”
A woman in the kitchen | Source: Midjourney
I nodded, listening as she shared small pieces of her life. She had a quiet, calm voice, with a hint of sadness. She didn’t say much about her past, but enough that I understood the situation was complicated.
Eventually, she finished her sandwich, and I could see her eyelids growing heavy.
“You should get some rest,” I said, keeping my tone gentle. “You’ve been through a lot tonight.”
A woman drinking tea with a fortune teller | Source: Midjourney
The next morning, I got up early to check on my daughter, who was still recovering from her broken leg. But when I opened her bedroom door, her bed was empty. A quick rush of panic went through me.
“Sarah?” I called, scanning the room.
No answer.
A small girl’s bedroom | Source: Midjourney
My heart began to race as I checked the hallway, the kitchen, even the living room, but she was nowhere to be seen. Finally, I walked toward Miranda’s room, a strange feeling growing in the pit of my stomach.
I knocked softly before opening the door. Inside, the room was dim, the curtains pulled shut. In the quiet light, I saw Miranda sitting on the edge of the bed.
A woman sitting on the bed | Source: Midjourney
My daughter was curled up next to her, fast asleep, with Miranda’s newborn nestled beside them. Miranda was humming softly, her hand resting gently on Sarah’s head.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice cracking a little as I spoke.
Miranda put a finger to her lips, her eyes soft as she motioned for me to stay quiet. She leaned down to brush a stray hair from my daughter’s forehead before whispering, “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
A sleeping girl | Source: Midjourney
I took a breath, willing myself to calm down. “What… happened? Why is Sarah in here?”
Miranda gave a small, reassuring smile. “I was awake with my daughter, trying to get her to sleep, when I heard your little girl crying.” She glanced at Sarah, still sound asleep beside her. “She sounded so upset. I couldn’t just ignore her, so I came in quietly to check on her.”
A woman talking to a man | Source: Midjourney
I nodded, letting her continue.
“She was talking in her sleep,” Miranda explained, her voice soft. “Something about ‘Mommy.’ She looked so lost.”
I swallowed, the mention of “Mommy” hitting me in a tender spot I tried not to dwell on. Sarah often cried out for her mother in her sleep, a wound we were both still trying to heal from.
A sad man sitting on the bed | Source: Midjourney
“She held my hand, even in her sleep,” Miranda continued. “I told her a story my grandmother used to tell me. A silly tale about a guardian who watches over children’s dreams and keeps all the bad ones away. She seemed to calm down after that.”
Miranda looked down at Sarah, her hand resting gently on my daughter’s shoulder. “After a while, I didn’t want to leave her alone, so I brought her here with me.”
A woman talking to a man in her bedroom | Source: Midjourney
I felt my shoulders relax, the initial tension giving way to something softer, something I couldn’t quite name. “Thank you,” I said, my voice a bit rougher than I’d intended. “She’s… been having a hard time since the accident. And, well, since her mom passed.”
Miranda looked up at me, understanding in her eyes. “I know what it’s like to lose family. To feel like no one is there when you’re scared.” She reached over, patting Sarah’s hand. “She’s a sweet girl. She just needs someone close right now.”
A sleeping girl | Source: Freepik
I took a moment, watching her with my daughter, and realized that she’d managed to comfort Sarah in a way I hadn’t been able to in a long time. “She misses that,” I said quietly, more to myself than to Miranda. “A mother’s touch.”
Miranda gave a gentle nod, understanding without any need for more words. I felt a strange mix of gratitude and relief. She’d offered my daughter something I hadn’t been able to, a gentle presence we both seemed to need.
A man talking to a woman in her bed | Source: Midjourney
“Look, Miranda,” I began, taking a step closer. “I know you planned on moving on soon, but… maybe you could stay a little longer. Just until you’re ready. I think it would be good for Sarah.”
Miranda’s eyes softened, as if my words were both a surprise and a relief. “If you’re sure… I’d like that. Sarah’s a special little girl.”
A smiling woman on her bed | Source: Midjourney
Just then, Sarah stirred beside her, her eyes fluttering open. She looked up at me, blinking, and then glanced over at Miranda. “Daddy?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
I crouched down beside her. “Morning, sweetheart. You had a little adventure last night.”
A smiling girl in her bed | Source: Freepik
Sarah’s gaze moved from me to Miranda, a small smile spreading across her face. “Miranda told me a story,” she murmured, a spark of excitement in her sleepy eyes. “About a guardian who keeps the nightmares away.”
Miranda chuckled softly. “You were very brave, you know.”
A chuckling woman | Source: Midjourney
Sarah’s smile grew, her previous nervousness replaced with a shy kind of joy. “Will you tell me more stories?”
Miranda glanced over at me, and I nodded, feeling a warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time. “Of course,” Miranda said, her voice warm. “I’d be happy to tell you as many as you like.”
Mother and her daughter | Source: Pexels
In that small moment, the air felt lighter, as if the dark memories filling our home were giving way to something new. Sarah’s giggle as she asked Miranda questions about the story filled the room, a gentle melody that soothed something deep within me.
One night, as Sarah drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for Miranda’s unexpected presence. Somehow, this woman who had come into our lives in the strangest of ways had brought a kind of peace neither Sarah nor I had felt in a long time.
A happy man | Source: Pexels
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This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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