Ten months later, I held my newborn daughter in my arms.
Stephanie.
She was loud, red-faced, furious at the world and very much alive. When she cried, it felt like music. When she wrapped her tiny fingers around mine, I knew—without question—that miracles existed.
I never forgot the promise.
On Stephanie’s first birthday, while balloons bounced against the ceiling and cake smeared across her cheeks, we signed the final adoption papers.
That same day, a social worker placed another baby girl into my arms.
Her name was Ruth.
She had been abandoned on Christmas Eve, left near the city’s central Christmas tree, wrapped in a thin blanket, no note, no explanation. She was quiet. Watchful. Her eyes seemed far older than her tiny body.
