01/02/2026
Four months ago, I gave birth to my son. My husband never got to meet him because cancer took him when I was five months pregnant.
My life is a cycle of midnight feedings, diapers, pumping, crying, and three hours of sleep. To keep us afloat, I clean an office downtown before the workday starts. Four hours a day. Just enough for rent and diapers. While I'm gone, my late husband's mom watches the baby.
One icy morning after my shift, on my way home, I heard it—a cry. Not a cat, not a puppy. A baby. Thin, desperate. I followed it to the bench near the bus stop.
There, in a flimsy blanket, was a newborn. Alone. Face red from screaming.
My hands shook as I scooped him up. He was freezing, starving. I ran home. My MIL gasped when she saw me. I explained between breaths.
I breastfed him beside my son, tears dripping onto his tiny head. But we knew we had to call the police. Social services took him, and I sent along diapers, wipes, and bottles of pumped milk.
The next day, my phone rang. A deep male voice: "Is this Miranda? You found the baby?"
"Yes."
"You need to meet me today at 4 p.m. Write the address down."
When I saw the address, my blood ran cold. It was MY office building.
Why would they be calling me? Was I in trouble for feeding the baby? Would they fire me for taking him home instead of calling immediately?
At 4 p.m. sharp, a guard escorted me upstairs. The office smelled of leather and power. Behind a massive desk sat a silver-haired man.
He didn't introduce himself. He just said: "Sit." ⬇️
