One chilly evening, as I stepped outside, I heard the faint sound of crying coming from my neighbor Ellie’s porch. Curious and concerned, I walked over and found a tiny baby, wrapped in a thin blanket, his little face red from the cold. Shocked, I knocked on Ellie’s door, but she was just as bewildered as I was—she had no idea where the child had come from.
With no time to waste, I called the police. As we waited for them to arrive, I couldn’t take my eyes off the baby. He was so small, so helpless. My husband, Justin, and I had always wanted children, but fate hadn’t blessed us with any of our own. In that moment, I felt an overwhelming urge to protect him.
When the authorities failed to locate his parents, Justin and I made a life-changing decision—we would foster him. In time, our love for him grew beyond measure, and we legally adopted him, naming him Tom. Life wasn’t always easy, but it was filled with love and laughter.
Then, when Tom was eight, Justin passed away. The loss was devastating, but I knew I had to stay strong for my son.
Years later, when Tom turned 13, he stumbled upon his adoption papers. The revelation shook him. He had always known he was adopted, but he had never questioned it—until now. With a newfound determination, he asked me to help him find his birth parents.
Despite our best efforts, every lead led to a dead end. But deep in my heart, I knew that if we kept searching, one day, we would find the answers Tom was looking for.