Each of those poor souls has come to Ste-Anne-de-Beaupre to pray for a miracle. Sometimes, when I’m walking on Avenue Royale, I feel hope hanging in the air like a living thing.

Every summer, religious pilgrims from around the world come to pray for Saint Anne’s help and to buy souvenirs from the row of shops like ours on Avenue Royale. Saint Anne is one of Quebec’s patron saints. Dad calls her the patron saint of lost causes. “Think of all the crippled people who come here,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Have you ever seen a single one miraculously cured?”

Mom hates Dad when he talks like that “What about all those crutches hanging on the basilica walls? Every single pair was left behind by someone who didn’t need them anymore! Besides,” she tells Dad, “if you don’t believe in miracles they’ll never happen.”

“In all my life, I only ever witnessed one miracle,” Dad likes to say to Mom. “And that was when a babe like you fell for a goofball like me.”

“The world’s sweetest goofball,” Mom’ll say.

I want to believe in miracles, really I do, but Dad’s got a point. I’ve heard of miraculous healings, but I’ve never seen one. Then again, Mom’s got a point too. Maybe if I believed more strongly, miracles would happen.”