I Took in a Fortune Teller with a Newborn, I Was Stunned in the Morning When I Looked into My Sick Daughters Room

When I first offered shelter to a stranded fortune teller and her newborn, I thought I was simply providing a place to stay. But the following morning, I awoke to find my daughter missing from her room.

It was late, and I was exhausted after a long shift. As I drove off the highway, I noticed something by the roadside. The dim glow of my headlights revealed a woman, weakly waving her hand.

I slowed down instinctively, my medical training kicking in. She appeared young, her head wrapped in a bright scarf, her flowing dress catching the light, almost as if she were part of a traveling fair or show.

“Please… help me,” she gasped as I approached.

“Are you hurt?” I asked, moving closer.

She shook her head, wincing. “No… not hurt. It’s my baby… she’s coming.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but then I saw it—the unmistakable signs of labor.

“Alright, stay calm,” I said, kneeling beside her. “I’m a doctor. We’ll get through this together.”

I glanced around, realizing there was no time to get her to a hospital. She was in full labor, and I hadn’t delivered a baby in years. But there was no choice.

“What’s your name?” I asked, keeping her focus on me.

“Miranda,” she whispered, her face twisting in pain.

The contractions came fast, and she gripped my hand tightly. I coached her through each one, her strength pushing her closer to the moment of birth. Soon, I could see the baby’s head, and I urged Miranda, “One more push. You’ve got this.”

With a final effort, she pushed, and moments later, I held a tiny, squirming newborn in my arms. Her soft cry was a relief, and I quickly wrapped her in a towel and handed her to Miranda.

“Do you need to go to a hospital?” I asked, glancing around the empty road.

“No,” she replied quickly, her eyes darting away. “I can’t. I left my husband. He… wasn’t kind to me. I’m afraid the hospital will report me.”

I nodded, understanding she was hiding more than she shared. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

She looked down at her baby, her expression torn. “No… I thought I could figure it out, but then… she came early.”

For a moment, I hesitated. I lived alone with my six-year-old daughter after my wife passed away. It was just the two of us, plus the nanny. But this woman needed help.

“I have a guest room,” I said before I could second-guess myself. “You and your baby can stay with us for a few days. Just until you get back on your feet. But I insist you go to a hospital soon.”

Miranda’s eyes filled with tears, her smile small but grateful. “Thank you… I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you is enough,” I replied with a reassuring smile. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”

Back at my house, I showed Miranda to the guest room, offering a quiet place for her and her newborn. She seemed exhausted but grateful, cradling her child.

“I used to work fairs… palm reading, fortune telling. It didn’t pay much, but it was enough to get by,” she said, her voice soft and distant.

I listened, understanding she wasn’t ready to share everything. She had clearly been through a lot.

Later, after she finished eating, I noticed how tired she was. “You should rest,” I said gently. “You’ve had a long night.”

The next morning, I woke early to check on my daughter, who was still recovering from a broken leg. But when I opened her bedroom door, her bed was empty. Panic hit me like a wave.

“Sarah?” I called, hurrying through the house. I checked the living room, the kitchen—she was nowhere to be found. Finally, my feet led me to Miranda’s room, a sinking feeling growing in my chest.

I knocked softly and opened the door. Inside, the room was dim, the curtains drawn. Miranda sat on the bed, gently brushing a lock of hair from Sarah’s forehead as she hummed softly. My daughter lay curled up beside her, fast asleep. The newborn lay nestled next to them.

“What’s going on?” My voice cracked as I asked the question.

Miranda pressed a finger to her lips, motioning for me to be quiet. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” she whispered, her eyes warm with understanding. “I was awake with my daughter when I heard Sarah crying. She sounded so upset. I couldn’t leave her like that.”

I stood still, feeling the sudden weight of her presence in our lives. “She was talking in her sleep,” Miranda continued softly. “Something about ‘Mommy.’ She looked so lost.”

The mention of “Mommy” struck me deeply. I tried to push the pain away, but I could feel it. Sarah still missed her mother, and we both carried that ache in silence.

Miranda kept speaking, her voice soothing. “She held my hand, even in her sleep. I told her a story my grandmother used to tell me—a tale about a guardian who watches over children’s dreams. It seemed to calm her.”

She 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 in here.”

The tension in my chest eased, though I was still processing. “Thank you,” I said, my voice thick. “Sarah’s been through a lot… since the accident… and since her mom passed.”

Miranda’s eyes softened. “I know what it’s like to lose family, to feel alone when you’re scared,” she said quietly. “She’s a sweet girl. She just needs someone close right now.”

I watched them, Sarah’s soft breathing steady beside Miranda. Something in my heart shifted. Miranda had given my daughter something I couldn’t—a comforting presence, a gentleness that felt like it had been missing for so long.

“Look, Miranda,” I began, taking a step closer. “I know you planned to leave soon, but… maybe you could stay a little longer. Just until you’re ready. I think it would be good for Sarah.”

Miranda looked at me, her eyes soft with surprise and relief. “If you’re sure… I’d like that.”

Just then, Sarah stirred beside her, blinking as she woke. She looked at me and then at Miranda.

“Daddy?” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I said, crouching beside her. “Looks like you had a little adventure last night.”

Sarah’s gaze shifted from me to Miranda, and a small smile spread across her face. “Miranda told me a story,” she said, her eyes bright with curiosity. “About a guardian who keeps the nightmares away.”

Miranda smiled, her voice warm. “You were very brave, you know.”

Sarah’s smile grew, a shy but genuine joy lighting up her face. “Will you tell me more stories?”

Miranda glanced at me, and I nodded. “Of course,” she said, her voice a melody of kindness. “I’d love to.”

In that moment, the air in the room lightened. Sarah’s laughter filled the space, soft and sweet, like a new chapter beginning. Somehow, this woman who had arrived in our lives so unexpectedly had brought a sense of peace we hadn’t known in a long time. And I realized, in that small, quiet moment, that things were starting to change for the better.