Miracles are said to happen when you least expect them. For eight long years, my husband Joshua and I tried to have a child, enduring failed treatments and endless heartache.
But after another disappointing doctor’s visit, I couldn’t have imagined that in a single afternoon, my entire world would change.
I’m Grace, 35, and after years of trying for a child, I was at my breaking point. Leaving the clinic that day, Dr. Rivera’s words echoed in my mind: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Thompson.
The latest round wasn’t successful.” I was devastated. Unable to face Joshua and the familiar pain in his eyes, I went to Riverside Park instead.
I sank onto a bench, exhausted and needing a moment alone. Before I knew it, I drifted off. When I opened my eyes, I felt an unfamiliar weight in my arms—a newborn girl, swaddled in a soft yellow blanket.
I panicked, calling out, but no one was there. Then I saw the note in her tiny hand: “Her name’s Andrea. I can’t take care of her anymore. She’s yours now. Forgive me. Don’t look for me.”
Shocked, I called Joshua, who arrived quickly, as bewildered as I was. At the police station, officers examined the note and searched for the woman, but she was nowhere to be found.
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