Inside was a baby boy. His skin was red from the cold. The blanket around him was so thin it felt like tissue paper.
I didn’t think. I grabbed the basket and yelled, “Harold! Call 911!”
Harold stumbled out, took one look, and went straight into action. We wrapped the baby in anything we could grab. Harold held him to his chest while I called.
I couldn’t let it go.
The house filled with flashing lights and serious faces. They checked him, asked if we’d seen anyone, if there was a note, a car, anything.
There was nothing.
They took him away. I remember his eyes, though. Dark, wide, weirdly alert.
That should’ve been it. A strange, sad story we told once in a while.
Except I couldn’t let it go.
The social worker gave me a number “in case you want an update.” I called that afternoon.
I called the next day.
“Hi, this is Eleanor, the woman with the baby on the doorstep… is he okay?”
“He’s stable,” she said. “He’s warming up. He seems healthy.”
I called the next day. And the next.
“Has anyone come forward?”
No one had.
Eventually, the social worker said, “If no relatives appear, he’ll go into foster care.”
Harold stared at the salt shaker for a long time.
I hung up and looked across the kitchen table at Harold.
“We could take him,” I said.
He blinked. “We’re almost 60.”
“I know,” I said. “But he’ll need somebody. Why not us?”
Harold stared at the salt shaker for a long time.
“Do you really want to do diapers and midnight feedings at our age?” he asked.
No one ever claimed him.
“I really don’t want him growing up feeling like nobody chose him,” I said.
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