At St. Luke’s Chapel, Jalen showed up holding a baby. Tie undone, shoes wet, cooler in hand. No one knew who the baby was.
He handed Father Kellan foil-wrapped evidence: a thumb drive, blood samples, and documents.
“Miri wasn’t supposed to die,” Jalen said. “Late-stage Lyme. Misdiagnosed. Ignored.”
He revealed the baby was Miri’s son, secretly born after she pushed him away. Foster care, now at risk after Lauren’s death—the friend who safeguarded the evidence.
Father Kellan confirmed it. Jalen pleaded: “We failed her. You can save him.”
I held the baby, warm, chubby, Miri’s eyes staring back. Her letter asked me to love him, to give him hope.
Two months later, I filed for guardianship. Noah’s name felt like a memory called into the present. Grief remains, but so does purpose. Miri left a legacy.
How many voices are whispering for help—and are you listening?
