No one in the building had seen or heard anything. Whoever had left that baby behind had done it quickly and quietly.
All that was left was a small baby, a note, and the way her tiny fingers had clung to my shirt.
Social services stepped in the same night. A woman named Teresa gave me her card and promised updates.
She spoke kindly, but firmly, like someone used to walking tightropes between heartbreak and protocol.
I lay awake that night thinking about her. And the next night. And the one after that.
Three weeks later, my phone rang.
“Ethan?
This is Teresa,” the voice said. “We still haven’t located any relatives or potential guardians. I wanted to ask if…
you might consider fostering her.”
Continue reading…
