My 18-year-old son moved into an apartment with his childhood best friend. I thought they were prepared to handle life independently. But only two days later, Wyatt returned home in tears. He locked the door and whispered, “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you. Please don’t call Austin.” Then he gave me a document he’d discovered at Austin’s house, and what I read nearly made me collapse.

“It was 5219, why are you staring at me like that?” she asked, her smile fading into shock.

We stood between our parked vehicles for nearly an hour, clinging to each other while crying and laughing at the absurdity of the coincidence.

“Our babies are going to be brothers or sisters,” Megan said, wiping away tears of joy.