My eight-year-old daughter, Talia, had already gone outside in her duck-print pajamas with her little pink watering can, 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 spun around so quickly I knocked the carton of eggs sideways.
Talia stood in the doorway barefoot, pale, and shaking. Water sloshed from the watering can in one hand.
In her other arm, pressed tightly against her chest, was a baby.
A real baby.
For one long second, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing.
My little girl.
Muddy feet.
A tiny blue blanket.
A newborn’s face barely visible against her pajamas.
Then the baby made a weak, broken sound, and my body moved before my thoughts caught up.
She handed him over like she knew he might break if she moved too fast.
The moment I touched him, my stomach turned.
He was cold.
Not a little chilled.
Cold.
“Daniel!” I screamed.
