All dark-skinned.
All with wide brown eyes.
All reaching upward with fragile little arms.
Their cries overlapped — one whimpering, another wailing, others fussing softly — forming a heartbreaking chorus that filled the room.
Richard stood frozen.
Nine babies.
“They’ll Be Separated”
A young nurse noticed him staring.
Quietly, she explained that the girls had been found together on the church steps in the middle of the night, wrapped in the same blanket.
“No names. No note,” she said gently. “People are willing to adopt one… maybe two. But never all of them. They’ll be separated soon.”
Separated.
The word cut through him like a blade.
He thought of Anne’s voice.
Of her belief that family was something chosen, not simply inherited.
His throat tightened.
“What if someone took them all?” he asked softly.
The nurse nearly laughed.
“All nine? Sir, no one can raise nine babies alone. Not without money. People would think you’ve lost your mind.”
But Richard barely heard her anymore.
He stepped closer to the cribs.
One baby stared up at him with startling intensity.
Another reached for the sleeve of his coat.
A third broke into a tiny gummy smile.
Something deep inside him cracked open.
The emptiness he had carried for years transformed into something heavier — but alive.
Responsibility.
“I’ll take them,” he said.
