The hallway smelled of expensive perfume—Chanel No. 5 and cold air. And there, sitting on my welcome mat, was a wicker basket.
It looked like a gift hamper from an upscale baby boutique. It was draped in a cover embroidered with a Christian Dior logo.
And then, the hamper moved.
A soft, rhythmic snuffing sound came from beneath the cashmere.
My breath hitched in my throat. I knelt, my knees hitting the hard floor, and peeled back the blanket.
Staring back at me were two eyes so large and dark they looked like pools of ink. A baby girl. Maybe three months old.
She was dressed in a onesie that probably cost three hundred dollars. Her tiny hands were balled into fists, clutching the edge of the pink cashmere as if holding onto a cliff edge. She had Jennifer’s eyes. She had Michael’s chin—her husband, the Harvard-educated lawyer who looked at me like I was the help.
I was paralyzed. My brain, usually so adept at processing data, threw up a critical error. This wasn’t a baby; this was a prop. Beside the child, tucked into the basket like afterthought accessories, were the tools of survival: a pristine Avent glass bottle, a tin of French organic formula, a leather-bound vaccination record.
And a note.
It was pinned to the blanket with a gold safety pin. Pink stationery. Jennifer’s handwriting—elaborate, looping, chaotic.
Caroline,
