“She needs someone,” James said softly.
“And you called me because… what? You want us to adopt her?”
Instead of answering right away, James reached inside his coat and pulled out a clear plastic hospital bag. Inside was a tiny, white knitted hat with a pale yellow flower sewn onto the side.
My knees went weak. I recognized the pattern—the exact same handmade stitches and flower design from a box we’d kept in our garage.
Inside the bag was also a folded piece of paper with just four words written on it:
Please give her home.
“Who wrote this?” I asked, my fingers trembling.
“They don’t know,” James replied. “I was dropping off paperwork for a hospital construction project when I overheard the nurses talking about child services coming. I couldn’t just walk away.”
That was James—the man who fixed broken cabinet doors instead of replacing them, and the man who had kept a box of baby clothes for four years after we made peace with having three boys.
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” I asked.
His face crumpled. “Because I was afraid you’d think I was trying to replace something. But when I saw her, I remembered that box in the garage. I kept it because I couldn’t bring myself to believe the dream was dead.”
I turned back to the glass. The baby stirred, puckered her lips, and let out a tiny sound. Something inside me broke open—a quiet, terrifying tenderness.
A nurse opened the nursery door. “You can come in.”
I stepped inside and placed my finger against her tiny curled hand. Her little fingers closed around mine, and tears spilled down my cheeks.
“She likes you,” the nurse smiled. “Babies know warmth.”
I looked back at James, standing in the doorway. “What happens now?”
