That evening, our house turned upside down. Mark rushed to buy formula and diapers. I borrowed a crib from my sister. Savannah refused to leave their side, singing lullabies and whispering, “This is your home now. I’m your big sister. I’ll teach you everything.”
One night became a week. No biological family came forward. The note’s author remained a mystery. Mrs. Rodriguez visited daily, but her attitude shifted. She watched us with approval as Mark installed safety gates and I child‑proofed cabinets.
“You know,” she said one afternoon, “emergency foster placement could become permanent if you’re interested.”
