I thought my Saturday morning would smell like French toast and bacon, right up until my eight-year-old daughter came in barefoot with a newborn in her arms. Then she looked at my husband and told me she had seen him put the baby there.
It was the kind of morning that usually made me believe my life was good.
Bacon hissed in the skillet. Cinnamon and vanilla were in the bowl for French toast. My mother-in-law, Cora, was due any minute with bread from the bakery in town.
And my daughter, Talia, had taken her little pink watering can outside because Saturday mornings in our house belonged to flowers and French toast.
Then the back door slammed so hard the measuring spoons jumped on the counter.
“Mom!”
I turned so fast I knocked the carton of eggs sideways.
Then the back door slammed.
Talia was barefoot, white-faced, and shaking so hard water sloshed from the can in one hand. In the other arm was a baby clutched to her chest.
A real baby.
For one second, my mind refused to make sense of it. Talia’s pajamas with the little ducks, her muddy feet, a tiny blue blanket, and a little face that didn’t look real.
Then the baby made a weak, broken sound.
In the other arm was a baby clutched to her chest.
***
I dropped to my knees.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Talia, baby. Give him to me. Right now!”
She did, carefully, like she knew he might come apart if she moved too fast. He was cold. Not cool. Cold.
My stomach turned over. This baby needed medical care immediately.
“Daniel!” I screamed.
My husband came in from the hallway, half-buttoned in his flannel. He stopped dead when he saw the baby in my arms.
“Give him to me. Right now!”
Not shocked. Not confused. Just frozen.
“Call 911,” he said quickly. “Isobel, call 911.”
But I was already moving. I grabbed the dish towel off the oven and wrapped it over the blanket, rubbing the baby’s back.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
Daniel paced, hand in his hair. “Who would do this? Who on earth would do this to a baby?”
That was when Talia spoke.
“I know who.”
I looked up first; Daniel spun around to look at our daughter. He tried to smile at her, and it was the worst thing I’d ever seen on his face.
“Isobel, call 911.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, too soft, too careful. “This isn’t a guessing game. Someone left a baby here. Mom needs to call for help.”
Talia shook her head. Her eyes never left him.
“No,” she said. “I saw.”
“What do you mean, you saw, baby?” I asked.
She lifted one hand and pointed straight at her father.
“Daddy,” she whispered. “I saw you put the baby there.”
“This isn’t a guessing game. Someone left a baby here.”
***
The baby gave another thin cry.
My hands shook so badly I nearly lost my grip on him.
Daniel laughed once, short and nervous. “What? Talia, no. No, honey. That’s not funny.”
She wasn’t laughing.
“I woke up when I heard the front door,” she said, voice small and plain. “I looked out my window. You were outside holding something wrapped up. I thought maybe it was a kitten for me. Then, when I went to get water for my flowers, I heard crying by the side path. He was there.”
She wasn’t laughing.
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