I was still wearing my scrubs, juggling my keys and a grocery bag, when my fourteen-year-old daughter rolled a stroller onto our porch. Inside were two newborns — tiny faces wrinkled like rose petals, making those soft, breathy sounds that barely seem real. For one suspended moment, everything went silent. Then the world snapped back into motion: the babies’ cries, the rustle of blankets, the tremor in Lucy’s voice.
“Mom… please don’t be mad. I didn’t know what else to do.”
My fingers tightened on the doorknob. “Lucy… what is this?”
“I found them in the park,” she whispered. “Someone left them. They were wrapped in blankets. I thought they were dolls… and then one moved. I couldn’t just walk away.”
My pulse lurched. Instinct kicked in. “You did the right thing bringing them here,” I said carefully, calmly — the same voice I use when a patient’s monitor spikes. “Now we call for help.”
Her face crumpled. “Please… not yet. What if no one takes care of them?”
Her fear was so raw it cracked straight through my exhaustion. I pulled her close. “We’ll do this the right way. They need medical care. And we need answers.”
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