As a single parent of a millennial son, both of us Roman Catholics, we are alive today because of one mother’s intuition that ultimately saved four lives: my mom’s, my younger sister’s, mine, and my son’s.

I can’t prove this statistically or evidentially, but I’d venture an educated guess that the saving grace of a mother’s intuition has touched families of many walks of life, all of whom have their own stories to tell. So take it as you will. This is my story.

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My first memory of a mom’s power of intuition was an eye-opener, especially as a young child growing up happy and healthy in a small northern New Jersey town. Living near Manhattan, my mom preferred a bargain-bartering style of shopping that was popular in New York City in the early 1960s. As a frugal person, she taught my sister and me how to use the subway as the most affordable way to get around.

On one of our jaunts downtown, we waited for a train that eventually pulled to a stop, its doors opening almost immediately amid the hustle and bustle. I was 11 years old at the time and my sister 6, and we held tightly to our mom to board as usual. But this time, she stopped abruptly — just as we were about to step into the subway car.

“No! We’ll wait for the next one.”

My sister and I together said, “Why?”

“It’s all wrong.”

Later that evening, as the 6 p.m. news was on, my dad called my mom into the TV room. We heard him, in a low voice, say to her, “That subway car you told me about — there was a shooting inside on the way downtown. Six people were killed.”

This event left an indelible impression on me as a kid, and I strained to figure out how my mom knew something was wrong. Was it a great guess? An angel? Also, it was the first time my parents poured themselves a Johnny Walker Black Scotch straight up and sat together in silence for an hour.

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They didn’t explain anything further. As with many Greatest Generation parents who had rough young lives as survivors of the Depression and World War II service in the Army, they played their cards close to the vest, especially when it came to sensitive issues. So my sister and I learned self-reliance by paying attention and seeking our own answers.

Still, I kept trying to work it out. What had actually happened? I went to my second home, the local church, and asked our elderly priest — who smiled and pointed to the 20-foot tall stained glass window above the altar. It depicted our Lord encouraging the little children to come to Him.

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On a warm afternoon not long after, I was taking beginner horse-riding lessons. Usually my dad assisted with my lessons, along with a buddy of his who ran the academy, or “the barn,” as the guys called it. But that day my dad had some work to do and said he’d be back when I was finished. There was, however, a new young man running the riding academy that day. I heard my dad tell him as he dropped me off, “She’s 12 years old and gets the same school horse, OK, son?”

But within 15 minutes, just as I was saddled and ready to go, I saw my dad’s car pulling back up to the track. He jumped out.

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“Stop!” he yelled. But my mount — which was not a school horse — had already bolted and was headed for a 10-foot cement wall bordering the outer grounds of the track.

Running and yelling to me, “Hold on! You can do it!” my dad vaulted bareback onto a huge horse nearby. He managed to rein in my crazed horse and stopped him just 10 feet from the wall.

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After that, many people in my area kept telling the story of how my dad saved his little girl.

“He came back and knew something was wrong. What instinct! And that girl just sat straight and tall, holding onto those reins with all the strength she had!”

Whatever one might say was at work that day and the other days as well, I don’t think it was of our own making. Somehow God managed to hold us in His hands — along with the intuition of those on earth who loved us most.

The author, a retired attorney, is a published poet and columnist in Arizona; she is a regular contributor to LifeZette.