My name is Mike, and at thirty-six I’ve lived through more loss than I ever expected to face this early in life. A year ago, I became a widower after a drunk driver blew through a stop sign on an icy Tuesday night and slammed into my wife’s car. Lara never made it home. One moment we were texting about whether our son, Caleb, needed new pajamas, and the next I was standing in a hospital hallway clutching a diaper bag like an anchor in a storm. Since then, I’ve rebuilt my life piece by piece, mostly for Caleb, who’s now a wild, giggling one-and-a-half-year-old who climbs everything in sight and reminds me daily that joy can still exist alongside grief.
That morning started just like any other. I dropped Caleb at my sister’s house before rushing off to a plumbing job. My first call was a leaking pipe in a neighbor’s basement, and the quickest way there was a narrow trail through the woods behind our neighborhood. I’ve walked that path more times than I can count—toolbox in hand, mind on autopilot.
But that day, the woods had something else waiting for me.
About two minutes in, I heard it: a faint, desperate cry. A baby’s cry.
I froze. There was no stroller, no parent, no sign of anyone. Just the sound drifting through the trees like something out of a nightmare. I followed the sound off the trail, pushing through sharp branches until I spotted an infant carrier tucked deep under a thicket. It wasn’t hidden by accident. Someone had meant for it to be out of sight.
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