And now there was a baby in my kitchen wearing my daughter’s jacket.

I set the basket on the table and forced myself to move.

There was a diaper bag, formula, two sleepers, and wipes. Whoever brought her hadn’t abandoned her and run. They had planned this.

The baby kept staring, solemn as a tiny judge.

I touched the jacket again. The left cuff was still frayed where Jennifer used to chew it when she was anxious.

I slipped my hand into the pocket.

Paper. My pulse roared in my ears, making me dizzy. I unfolded the note slowly, smoothing it with both hands.

“Jodi,

My name is Andy. I know this is a terrible way to do this, but I don’t know what else to do.

This is Hope. She’s Jennifer’s daughter. She’s mine too.

Jen always said that if anything ever happened to her, Hope should be with you. She kept this jacket all these years. She said it was the last piece of home she never gave up.

I’m sorry.

There are things you don’t know. Things Paul kept from you.

I’ll come back and explain everything.

Please take care of Hope.

— Andy”

My hands began to tremble.

“No,” I whispered. “No, Jen. No.”

After five years, I had let go of the hope that my daughter would ever return. Now Hope blinked up at me.

I pressed the note to my lips, then forced myself to move. I called the pediatric clinic and said I was bringing in a baby left in my care.