“Let me see her,” she demands. Her brow is dripping sweat and her breathing still ragged from the delivery.

“When she’s ready, my dear,” her husband tells her. “Let them clean her up a bit.”

“I want to see my child now!” The slight tremor in her voice leaves little room for argument. With a nod to the attending mid-wife the newborn, now wrapped in a blanket, is placed in her arms.

“I can’t wait to see the color of her wings!” She’s practically giddy with excitement.

“Dear,” the husband begins, the hint of a warning in his face.

She unwraps the child and stares openly at her.

“This isn’t my child!”

“Of course it is!” This time it is his voice with the tremor. “This is OUR child.”

“No child of mine would be born without wings.” It is spoken as a fact. She hands the uncovered baby back to the mid-wife who stares down at her. Large, black eyes look back.

“My child would not be a mundane.” She then refuses to look at her again and silent, bitter tears begin to flow down her face.