For years, I lived by calendars and syringes, counting each failed test with a heavy silence. Daniel and I drifted apart, his late nights and secretive phone only deepening the distance. One evening, I came home to find a wicker basket on the table—a tiny baby girl crying inside, wrapped in a knitted blanket I’d never seen.
An envelope held four words: “Luiza, you will be a wonderful mother.” Daniel confessed she was his cousin’s child, left in their care after a tragic car accident. Panic had silenced him until I arrived.
Holding her, I felt a weight I’d longed for but never expected this way. We vowed to do this right—no secrets, just love.
Family opinions swirled, but Helena’s quiet assurance settled my doubts: “She’s yours. Love is what makes a home.”
Now, late at night, with Isabella sleeping on my chest, I realize families aren’t always what we imagine. Sometimes they arrive unexpectedly, in a wicker basket with a messy note—and suddenly, it’s your turn to say yes.
