The house was eerily quiet as my mother sat at the kitchen table, scribbling on a sheet of paper. I was anxious—my wife Jenna was upstairs, labor had begun, and our son was finally on his way.
“What are you doing, Mom?” I asked, leaning in the doorway.
“Just thinking,” she replied, eyes still on her paper.
“About what?” I probed.
“About the baby, Nathan,” she said. “About life.”
She quickly folded the paper, sealed it in an envelope, and handed it to me. “Open it right after your son is born.”
“Is this a gift or a prophecy?” I joked.
She just smiled. “You’ll see.”
Minutes later, Jenna called from upstairs, “Nathan, it’s time!” I grabbed the hospital bag, and my mother followed, the envelope in her hand.
Six hours later, our baby’s first cry filled the delivery room. Jenna, tired but happy, held our son. “He’s perfect,” I said, tears in my eyes.
The nurse announced, “He’s nine pounds, ten ounces, and nineteen inches long. Congratulations!”
I remembered the envelope from my mother. Opening it, I found a note stating: “Your son will be 9 pounds, 10 ounces, and 19 inches long.”
Stunned, I called my mom. “How did you know?”
“I’m in tune with family traditions,” she explained. “My grandfather was born with those exact measurements, and every firstborn son since has been the same.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“I didn’t want to influence you,” she said. “But now that the tradition has proven true, I was hoping…”
“Hope for what?” I asked, growing impatient.
“Maybe we should name him Oscar, after my grandfather. It would mean a lot to me.”
I hesitated. Jenna and I had already chosen a name. “Mom, we picked a name already.”
“I know,” she replied. “But it’s important.”
Jenna overheard as she held the baby. “What’s going on?” she asked.