I hadn’t seen my daughter in five years—strained calls and unanswered voicemails had widened the distance between us. So when she finally said she was coming home, I was both hopeful and nervous.
“Elena and Darren are getting married,” she said. Two months together—and suddenly I was meeting her fiancé. Four days later, my modest home buzzed with anticipation. I’d cooked her favorite chicken pot pie and even scruffed myself up to look normal again.
But when the doorbell rang, my breath caught. Elena stood there, not with a suitcase—but with a baby in her arms. A six-month-old, silent against her chest. My mind blanked.
The next morning, they were gone. No explanation—only a note beside the crib: “Sorry.” That single word unraveled everything. Panic and questions consumed me. Why abandon this baby? Where were they?
I called police. I contacted hospitals. I notified neighbors and cousins. Each hour without them felt like a lifetime.
On Day Four, a detective called. The baby had been found—just slept through the night at a nearby park, swaddled in blankets, bewildered but safe. No sign of Elena or Darren. Theories swirled, grief and relief twisting inside me.
I took the baby in, full-time, arranging care and clothes while we all waited to understand what had come to pass.
