A few years back, when my wife was pregnant with our second child and close to giving birth, my mother came to stay with us. One evening, she asked for a pen, paper, and an envelope. She quickly jotted something down, sealed it, and handed it to me. “Keep this in your pocket and don’t open it until the right time. You’ll know when,” she said.
Not long after—maybe half an hour later—my wife announced it was time to head to the hospital. After nine hours of labor, at 3:45 a.m., our second daughter was born, weighing 8 pounds 11 ounces and measuring 20 inches long.
Back then, before cell phones, I called my mom from the hospital to share the news. But before I could speak, she told me, “Open the envelope.” I did—and inside was a note that read: “Girl, 3:45 AM, 8 pounds, 11 ounces, 20 inches.”
I kept that piece of paper for years, treasuring the mystery of it. But after my mother passed away, I went to retrieve it from the safe where we stored important documents—and it was gone.