By the time he reached his driveway, his coat was plastered to his skin, his sneakers squelched, but Clara’s cries had softened to tiny hiccups.
“Mom! Dad!” he yelled.
Rachel Carter appeared first, a dish towel still in hand. Marcus stepped out from the garage, oil-stained hands raised in confusion. Their eyes widened.
In the driveway stood their son, seven years old, shaking, soaked to the bone, pushing a real baby stroller.
“I… I found her,” Liam panted. “Someone left her in the park. She was all alone.”
Rachel’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, God,” she whispered. She bent down, cradled the baby, and felt Clara’s little fingers clutch at her coat.
Marcus picked up the folded note tucked under the blanket:
Please don’t judge me. I cannot care for her. She deserves better than I can give. Her name is Clara. I hope someone kind will find her.
No signature.
“She… loved her enough to name her,” Marcus said quietly. “And still felt like they had no choice.”
Rachel nodded, her heart aching. “Everyone has choices,” she muttered. Then she looked down at Liam. “But you… you made the right one.”