For several seconds, I could not make sense of what I was seeing.
The baby was tiny, probably only a few months old. She was wrapped in a faded yellow blanket, with one small hand curled near her cheek. A patch of dark hair showed above her forehead.
Dwayne held her carefully against his chest.
“What is that?” I blurted.
It was a ridiculous question. I could clearly see that he was holding a baby. But shock had emptied my mind of every sensible word.
Dwayne swallowed.
“Mom—”
I dropped the knife onto the cutting board and hurried toward him.
“Whose baby is this? Where did you find her? What happened?”
He glanced toward the front window as though he expected someone to appear outside.
My heart began beating harder.
“Dwayne, answer me.”
He looked down at the child instead.
That silence frightened me more than any explanation could have.
My son had never given me a reason to distrust him. But now he was standing in our kitchen with an infant in his arms, refusing to tell me where she had come from.
Terrible possibilities rushed through my mind.
Had he discovered her abandoned somewhere?
Had someone forced him to take her?
Was a desperate mother searching the streets for her missing child?
I grabbed my phone from the counter.
“I’m calling the police.”
Before I could unlock the screen, Dwayne shifted the baby into one arm and reached for my wrist.
“Mom, please,” he whispered. “Don’t call them yet.”
His fingers were trembling.
I stared at him.
“Why would you ask me that?”
“I know who she belongs to,” he said. “But you have to let me explain first. If you call before you hear everything, you might make it worse.”
His voice cracked.
The baby stirred but did not wake.
I slowly lowered my phone.
“You have one chance to tell me the truth,” I said. “Start from the beginning.”
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