And I did.
My body ached from exhaustion, but as I nursed that fragile little stranger, something inside me shifted. The baby’s tiny hand clutched my shirt as his cries turned into steady gulps. Tears blurred my vision as I whispered, “You’re safe now.”
After feeding him, I wrapped the baby in one of my son’s soft blankets. His eyelids fluttered before slowly closing, his small chest rising and falling in rhythm with mine. For a moment, the world felt completely still.
Ruth sat beside me and rested a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“He’s beautiful,” she whispered. “But, sweetheart… we have to call the police.”
Her words snapped me back to reality. My stomach twisted. I knew she was right, but it hurt to imagine letting him go. In just an hour, I had already grown attached.
I dialed 911 with trembling fingers.
The dispatcher asked where I found him, how he was doing, and whether anyone had been nearby. Fifteen minutes later, two officers stood in our small apartment doorway, their uniforms filling the space.
“He’s safe now,” one of them assured me as he carefully lifted the baby from my arms. “You did the right thing.”
Still, as I packed a small bag of diapers, wipes, and bottles of milk for him, tears blurred my vision.
“Please,” I begged, “make sure he’s warm. He likes being held close.”
The officer smiled kindly. “We’ll take good care of him.”
When the door closed, silence filled the room. I sat on the couch holding one of the tiny socks he had kicked off and cried until Ruth wrapped her arms around me.
The next day passed in a haze. I fed my son, changed him, and tried to nap, but my thoughts kept returning to that baby. Was he in a hospital? With social services? Would someone claim him?
By evening, as I rocked my son to sleep, my phone buzzed. An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen.
“Hello?” I answered softly so I wouldn’t wake the baby.
