Nancy stood silently at her husband Patrick’s grave, her heart heavy with grief. The autumn wind brushed against her, but she barely felt it. A week had passed since the car accident that had taken him, yet it still didn’t seem real. She could still picture his warm smile, remember his handwritten notes, and feel the comfort of their Sunday routines — now gone in an instant.
As mourners slowly drifted away, Nancy turned to leave, unsure how to begin this new chapter of life. That’s when she saw her — a frail older woman cradling a crying baby.
“Are you Nancy?” the woman asked gently.
“I am,” Nancy answered, her voice quiet and guarded.
The woman took a deep breath. “This baby… is Patrick’s. My name is Amanda.”
The world seemed to tilt. “No,” Nancy whispered, stepping back. “That’s not possible.” Emotion caught in her throat.
Amanda didn’t argue. Her gaze was soft, almost apologetic. “The baby’s mother… can’t care for her anymore. You’re her only hope.”
“I don’t know who you are,” Nancy said firmly. “I can’t handle this. Not today.”
Amanda nodded, as if she understood. Nancy turned away, chalking it up to the chaos of mourning — a misunderstanding brought on by exhaustion.
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