After another failed fertility treatment, I sat in Riverside Park to clear my head and drifted into a light sleep. When I woke, a newborn baby girl wrapped in a yellow blanket rested in my arms.
In her tiny hand was a note: her name was Andrea, and her mother couldn’t care for her. Next to me was a diaper bag with all her essentials, as if carefully planned. I called my husband, Joshua, and we took Andrea to the police station.
While changing her diaper, I noticed a small birthmark identical to Joshua’s. My heart raced. Quietly, I asked him to step aside. He admitted to a brief affair during a difficult time, unaware it had resulted in a child. A DNA test confirmed Andrea was his daughter.
The months that followed were filled with therapy, tough conversations, and gradual healing. Each night, as Andrea’s tiny fingers wrap around mine, I feel a quiet hope. Life didn’t go as planned—but sometimes, the most unexpected turns are miracles.
