Before I could respond, Mark’s truck pulled in. He stepped out, froze, and nearly dropped his toolbox.

“Are those… real babies?”

“Very real,” I whispered. “And apparently, they’re ours now.”

At least temporarily, I thought. But the protective fire in Savannah’s eyes told me otherwise.

The next hours blurred. Police came, followed by a social worker, Mrs. Rodriguez, who examined the babies.

“They’re healthy,” she said gently. “Two or three days old. Someone cared for them before… this.”

“What happens now?” Mark asked.

“Foster placement tonight,” she explained.

Savannah broke down. “No! You can’t take them! I prayed for them every night. God sent them to me. Please, Mom, don’t let them take my babies!”

Her tears undid me.

“We can provide care,” I blurted. “Let them stay just tonight, while you figure things out.”

Something in our faces—or Savannah’s desperation—softened Mrs. Rodriguez. She agreed.

That night, Mark bought formula and diapers while I borrowed a crib from my sister. Savannah never left their side, whispering, “This is your home now. I’m your big sister. I’ll teach you everything.”