I looked at Ava.
“I suppose I do.”
She explained it would only be temporary.
A few days, perhaps.
I believed her.
The days settled into an unexpected rhythm.
Ava woke every three hours.
She hated cold bottles, loved being rocked near the front window, and would stare for long stretches at the birds gathering in the old maple tree outside as if they were putting on a show just for her.
On the third day, my neighbor Helen knocked with a bag full of diapers, wipes, and baby clothes.
“I heard what happened,” she said, waving away my thanks. “It takes a village.”
She was right.
Before the week was over, someone left formula on my porch.
Another neighbor dropped off a baby swing.
Strangers I’d only ever waved to from across the street suddenly became part of Ava’s story.
Every evening, I called Dana.
Every evening, the answer was the same.
“No sign of Sabrina.”
As the days passed, I found myself slipping into routines I hadn’t expected.
“We should get your bottle.”
“Let’s see what the birds are doing.”
“Time for your nap.”
Somewhere along the way, “the baby” quietly became “Ava.”
I caught myself smiling when she smiled, laughing when she laughed.
When I sneezed one afternoon, she let out a tiny giggle that echoed through the house, and before I knew it, I was laughing with her.
The sound filled rooms that had been quiet for years.
I hadn’t realized how lonely they’d become.
One afternoon I noticed a loose stitch in the corner of the yellow blanket.
I fetched a needle and matching yarn, repairing it almost without thinking.
Halfway through, I stopped.
I knew this pattern.
Not just something similar.
This exact pattern.
I turned the blanket over in my hands, trying to remember where I’d seen it before.
Nothing came.
Only a faint sense that it belonged to another life.
I folded it carefully around Ava again.
“You’ve been loved for a long time,” I whispered.
I had no idea how true that was.
By the ninth day, Ava reached for me whenever I entered the room.
If I disappeared into the kitchen, she’d twist around until she found me again.
The moment our eyes met, she’d grin.
It scared me how much that smile mattered.
Years ago, I’d promised myself I would never love another child enough to lose them.
Now that promise was slipping away one bottle, one bedtime, one sleepy smile at a time.
On the tenth day, I opened the hall closet looking for an extra blanket.
Instead, I found an old storage box.
Inside were children’s books, tiny rain boots, and crayon drawings from another chapter of my life.
I closed the lid before I could look any longer.
Some memories were still too heavy.
That evening, Helen stopped by with dinner.
She watched Ava babble happily on the living room floor.
“She feels safe here,” she said softly.
After Helen left, I sat beside Ava while she struggled onto her stomach.
When she finally managed it, she looked up at me with the biggest smile I’d ever seen.
Without thinking, I kissed the top of her head.
The moment I did, tears filled my eyes.
I wasn’t supposed to love her.
She wasn’t mine.
She never had been.
That night I lay awake wondering where Sabrina was.
Had she been hurt?
Was she hiding?
Or had something happened that made coming back impossible?
None of the answers brought me any peace.
The next morning, we woke to rain tapping softly against the window.
As I finished feeding Ava her bottle, someone pounded on the front door, three heavy blows that rattled the house.
My heart lurched.
Carrying Ava against my shoulder, I opened the door.
