She arrived just after noon, pale and flustered, her hair in a messy knot. My nineteen-year-old stepdaughter handed me her baby, barely looking at me. “Can you watch her for a bit? I’ll be right back,” she said, and rushed out the door.
At first, I reassured myself. Young mothers get overwhelmed. She’d be back soon. But hours passed. Calls and messages went unanswered. Panic settled in as I rocked the baby, murmuring comfort for both of us.
Finally, a knock. A man stood there with a canvas bag. Inside were baby clothes and a folded note. The handwriting was frantic. She confessed she felt terrified, unworthy, and unsure if she could provide the life her daughter deserved.
The man explained he was a foster parent she trusted, sent to check if the baby was safe. My heart tightened.
“No,” I said firmly. “She’s not going anywhere. If her mother can’t care for her now, I will.”
He nodded, respectful, leaving the decision in my hands.
I sat down, holding the little girl close. “You’re home now,” I whispered. “And you always will be.”