The house filled with flashing lights and serious faces. The responders asked if we’d seen anyone, a note, a car—anything. But there was nothing.
They took him away. I remember his eyes, though—dark, wide, strangely alert.
That should have been the end. A sad story to tell once in a while. But I couldn’t let it go.
The social worker gave me a number “in case you want an update.” I called that afternoon. Then the next day. And the next.
“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.”
No one ever came forward. Eventually, the social worker said, “If no relatives appear, he’ll go into foster care.”
I looked at Harold across the kitchen table. “We could take him,” I said.
He blinked. “We’re almost 60.”
“I know. But he’ll need somebody. Why not us?”
Harold’s eyes filled with tears. That decided it.
