Three months later, they were both gone.
A drunk driver ran a red light.
I still remember the sterile hospital corridor and the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as a social worker spoke to me in soft, professional tones.
“Mr. Morales,” she said gently, “we understand you were named as godfather. But raising an infant is an enormous responsibility. There are qualified foster families prepared—”
“No,” I said before she could finish.
Lisa was sleeping in my arms, unaware that her entire world had collapsed.
“I’m not letting her go to strangers.”
I was twenty-four years old. I had a small apartment, a job that barely covered rent, and absolutely no idea how to raise a child. I had never pictured myself as a father, certainly not that soon.
My mother cried when I told her my decision.
“Landon, you’re so young,” she said. “Your whole life is ahead of you.”
