The February cold cut through my gloves as I hurried toward the ER—until I saw a small bundle near the curb. It moved. Inside the threadbare blanket was a baby boy, barely three weeks old, lips tinted blue, breath faint. I scooped him up and ran inside. In seconds, he was surrounded by nurses, warmers, monitors. When his tiny hand wrapped around my finger, something inside me held on. No one came for him. Between shifts, I visited the NICU, humming lullabies and tucking his blanket.
After years of infertility heartbreak, I asked my husband, Tom, to meet him. One glance and a tiny hand around his thumb, and he whispered, “Maybe this is how we become parents.” Three months later, after endless forms and prayers, the adoption was final. We named him Benjamin. Three years flew by in laughter, first steps, guitar songs with Tom, and pancake breakfasts.....
