—
“Noah? What in the world?!”
“Where is he?!”
“Gone.”
She read the note, looked back at me, then pressed one hand flat to her chest.
“Honey, you can’t raise three babies alone!”
“I know!”
“You don’t even know how to warm a bottle.”
I let out a breath.
My neighbor lowered herself beside me. I was thinking she was probably right when the smallest baby lifted one hand, reaching blindly, and wrapped her tiny fist around my index finger. It was warm, small, and impossibly strong for a six-month-old.
I froze. I couldn’t move.
“That’s June,” Mrs. Hunter said quietly. “Patricia made sure we’d know how to tell them apart. Said the smallest one would always be June.”
“June,” I repeated, saying her name like I was checking whether I could still speak.
Baby June kept gripping my finger. She didn’t know I had no money, that I had never changed a diaper, or that her father had left them behind. She only knew someone was there.
“I’ll call social services in the morning,” my neighbor said gently. “There are good families, Noah. Ready people.”
I opened my mouth to say yes. I truly did.
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