I was responsible.

My own life was already stretched to the breaking point.

I had lost my husband to illness while I was still pregnant. The future we planned together vanished in hospital corridors and unanswered prayers. Now I lived day to day, raising our son alone, supported by my mother-in-law’s quiet strength and a cleaning job that barely kept food on the table.

Every morning started before sunrise. Every night ended with exhaustion and grief I didn’t have time to process.

Finding that baby cracked something open inside me.

I fed him. I warmed him. I whispered nonsense words meant only to soothe. And then I did what I knew was right, even though my arms resisted.

I called the authorities.

Handing him over felt like tearing something loose from my chest. I watched as he was taken away, wrapped in official blankets, surrounded by people who promised he would be safe. I nodded, thanked them, and walked home with empty arms and a heavy heart.

All day, my thoughts stayed with him.

Was he warm enough?
Was he scared?
Did someone love him?

That evening, my phone rang.

The number was unfamiliar. The voice on the other end was formal, controlled—but beneath it, I heard urgency. I was asked to come to an office building I knew well. The same one I cleaned every morning before anyone arrived.