They say life can flip in a second. That morning, I was broken—another failed fertility treatment had left me numb and hollow. I wandered into Riverside Park, sat on a bench, and somehow drifted off, overwhelmed by exhaustion and grief.
When I woke, everything changed. In my arms was a newborn wrapped in a soft yellow blanket. No one was nearby. Clutched in her tiny hand was a note:
“Her name is Andrea. I can’t care for her. She’s yours now. Don’t look for me.”
Beside me sat a diaper bag, filled with supplies—as if someone knew exactly what I’d need.
Shaking, I called my husband, Joshua. We rushed Andrea to the police. Cameras offered no clues—the woman had vanished. At the station, I changed the baby’s diaper and froze. On her thigh was a birthmark identical to Joshua’s.
His face turned pale. “Last year… I had an affair,” he whispered. “I didn’t know she was pregnant.”
And just like that, the miracle I prayed for… carried a secret I never imagined.