A car seat sat on my welcome mat, covered with a thin blanket to shield it from the rain. When I pulled back the blanket, I found a tiny baby girl, maybe three months old, with rosy cheeks and a wisp of dark hair just like my sister Amanda’s.

Tucked into the side of the car seat was a folded note in handwriting I immediately recognized.

Her name is Lily. I cannot do this. Take care of her. I am sorry.

That was it. Seven words that shifted my entire existence.

I looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of Amanda. I called her cell phone immediately, but it went straight to voicemail.