- June 10, 2025 -
I woke up tangled in my sheets, the familiar creak of my old mattress nudging me back to reality. It was 5:30 p.m., the evening light sneaking through my lace curtains, casting soft, dappled shadows across my bedroom. I’d overslept today, a rare slip for someone who usually stuck to a predictable routine. My stomach gave a little grumble, and I started daydreaming about my sacred snack time—a ritual I cherished in the quiet of my cozy, cluttered home. Maybe a warm scone slathered with strawberry jam, or those buttery shortbread biscuits I’d tucked away in the pantry for a moment like this. As I lay there, debating my options, a faint sound stopped me cold. It was a cry, soft but persistent, coming from just outside my front door.
I shuffled across the hardwood floor, my slippers scuffing along the polished boards, and opened the door. My heart skipped a beat. Right there, in front of my house, sat a wicker basket, and nestled inside was a baby girl. Her tiny hands flailed gently, her cries softening as she caught sight of me. Her cheeks were pink, probably from all that fussing, and her big brown eyes sparkled with a quiet trust that tugged at something deep inside me. I stood frozen, my mind racing. Who’d leave a baby on my doorstep? This was our sleepy little neighborhood, where the biggest excitement was Mrs. Sharma’s tabby sneaking into someone’s garden or the occasional delivery truck rumbling down the street.
I crouched down, my knees creaking like the old house itself, and lifted the basket. It felt too light for something so life-altering. Tucked into the folds of a soft pink blanket was a note, the paper crisp and faintly scented with lavender. I unfolded it with shaky hands, reading the words scrawled in messy ink: “This is your baby. Take care of it.” Utter nonsense! My face flushed with irritation. Who’d pull a stunt like this? The audacity! I’m Maria, a 50-something woman living alone in this house full of books, half-finished knitting projects, and the faint smell of lavender from the sachets I kept in every drawer. No kids, no partner, no reason for a baby to show up like an unexpected package. But as I looked at her, her cries now just soft hiccups, I couldn’t leave her out there in the evening chill.
- Five Minutes Later -
I don’t know what possessed me, but I brought the basket inside, setting it gently on my worn living room rug. The baby looked up at me, those brown eyes wide and curious, framed by lashes so long they seemed to brush her cheeks. She was a real charmer, with a smile so sweet it could’ve softened even Gabbar, that old Bollywood villain I laughed about during my late-night movie binges. I plopped down cross-legged beside her, just staring. Her button nose, the tiny dimple that flickered when she cooed, the wispy curls of dark hair against her forehead—she was perfect, a little soul wrapped in that blanket, stealing my heart with every gurgle.
Hours slipped away as I watched her, completely captivated. I rummaged through the kitchen for a bottle of milk—kept for that stray cat who visited sometimes—and warmed it carefully, testing it on my wrist like I’d seen in some parenting book I’d read years ago at the library. She grabbed at the bottle, drinking with such enthusiasm that I couldn’t help but chuckle. Every second with her pulled me in deeper, like a tide I didn’t want to fight. By the time the clock struck nine, I’d made up my mind: she was mine. This little girl, this unexpected miracle, was my daughter. I named her Rosé, the name feeling right the moment it left my lips. It went so well with mine, Maria, like we were meant to be a pair. A companion for this old lady in her 50s, I thought, laughing softly at how crazy and wonderful it all felt.
I carried Rosé around the house, showing her every corner like it was a grand adventure. “Here’s the kitchen, kiddo, where we’ll whip up pancakes on lazy Sundays,” I whispered, her warm little body snuggled against my shoulder. “And this is the living room, where we’ll read picture books by the window, with the sunlight spilling over us.” The house felt different now, alive with a warmth it hadn’t held in years. I imagined her toddling through these rooms someday, her laughter echoing off the walls, filling the spaces that had grown too quiet. As I wandered through the narrow hallway, my hip bumped against the old oak dresser, a hand-me-down from my mom that held more memories than I cared to count. I muttered a curse under my breath, rubbing the sore spot, and noticed a piece of paper flutter to the floor. It must’ve been tucked among the clutter on top—old receipts, a broken watch, a few faded photos I hadn’t looked at in years.
I picked it up, my fingers brushing the yellowed edges, and my stomach dropped as I read:
Patient Name: Maria
Diagnosis: Hallucinations
Current Status: Pregnant; Deceased (April 26, 2020)
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