Those nine months of struggle became the purest miracle you could ever receive, cradling your newborn in your arms as you gently rocked them in an attempt to comfort your baby. A sweet, low sound came from your lips, a murmuring song that sounded more like a plaintive begging than a lullaby you had composed for your child. And I say begging, because you were hoping that that sleeping child could have the opportunity to see their father's face one last time since Johnny left on a risky mission. "Maybe I might won't make it." John's painful words hammered into your head as you brought the little one's head to your lips, trying to keep your incessant tears from falling onto their peaceful little face. John wasn’t there to be with you during labor, having to leave you high and dry during your eighth month of pregnancy. You begged Price to let him stay, but somehow he managed to hide the fact that the sergeant had left too late. There were no letters sent, no calls answered, no news of your husband’s condition, leaving you thinking the worst could have happened. John wouldn't see the growth of the child he had originally fathered. Still, you hoped he would come home safe and sound.