My legs turned to jelly. Then she pulled a folded note from her pocket. The handwriting was rushed, desperate:
Please take care of them. Their names are Gabriel and Grace. I can’t do this. I’m only 18. My parents won’t let me keep them. Please, please love them like I can’t. They deserve so much better than I can give them right now.
The paper fluttered in my hands.
“Mom?” Savannah’s voice was small. “What do we do?”
Just then, Mark’s truck pulled in. He stepped out, lunch box in hand, and froze.
“What in the world…” He saw the babies and nearly dropped his toolbox. “Are those… are those real babies?”
“Very real,” I managed. “And apparently, they’re ours now.”
At least temporarily, I thought. But Savannah’s fierce, protective expression told me this was going to be more complicated than a call to the authorities.
The next hours blurred with phone calls and visits. Police photographed the note and asked questions we couldn’t answer. Then came Mrs. Rodriguez, a kind but weary social worker. She examined the babies gently.
