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.”
