For illustration purposes only
A faint smile crossed her face.
“I know you can.”
She turned and ran.
“Sabrina!”
I chased her into the rain, but she disappeared around the corner before I reached the sidewalk.
The only sound left was the rain.
Then a tiny whimper came from behind me.
I turned back to the baby.
She blinked up at me with enormous brown eyes.
“It’s all right,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure which of us I was trying to reassure.
Inside, I set the carrier on the living room rug.
The diaper bag was packed with military precision.
Every bottle had already been measured.
Every diaper was folded.
Formula.
Extra clothes.
A stuffed rabbit with one floppy ear.
No note.
No phone.
No wallet.
Just the yellow blanket tucked carefully around Ava.
People who abandoned babies didn’t prepare this carefully.
They packed in panic.
Whoever left Ava expected someone to care for her.
Seven-thirty became eight.
Eight became nine.
Every pair of headlights outside made me glance toward the window.
She never came back.
When Ava woke crying, I warmed one of the bottles from the diaper bag and settled into my old rocking chair.
She wrapped tiny fingers around mine while she drank.
Something inside me shifted.
“This is only for tonight,” I whispered.
“You’ll be with your mommy tomorrow.”
By midnight, I accepted the truth.
One hour had become five.
I called the police.
Two officers arrived within 20 minutes.
One searched the neighborhood while the other questioned me in my living room.
“She handed you the baby and ran?”
“Yes.”
“Did she seem angry?”
I remembered Sabrina’s face.
“No.”
“What did she seem?”
“Terrified.”
The officer looked toward Ava sleeping peacefully in her carrier.
“We’ll issue an alert tonight. Child Protective Services will take over in the morning.”
I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Sabrina disappearing into the rain.
By sunrise, I found myself standing at the front window, hoping to see her walking back up the path.
The porch stayed empty.
Just after nine, a white county vehicle pulled into my driveway.
Dana from Child Protective Services introduced herself with a gentle smile before spending nearly an hour asking questions.
When we finished, her eyes settled on a framed certificate beside my fireplace.
“You were a licensed foster parent.”
“I was.”
“It appears your license was never officially surrendered.”
“I just… stopped taking placements.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“Would you be willing to care for Ava temporarily while we continue searching for her mother?”
The question caught me off guard.
Before I answered, Ava kicked one tiny sock completely off her foot.
Without thinking, I bent down and slipped it back on.
Dana smiled.
“I think you already have your answer.”
