The first days after they brought Nora home were filled with photographs and messages. Then the messages slowed. By the third day, they stopped entirely. By the fifth day, my calls went unanswered, rolling quietly into voicemail. I heard a soft knock at the door. I wiped my hands on my jeans and opened it without thought. Inside, wrapped in the same pink blanket from the hospital, was Nora. Her tiny fists were curled near her face, her breathing soft and even. The words were blunt, cold, and final: We didn’t want a baby like this.

She’s your problem now. My knees hit the concrete before I realized I was falling. I called Claire with shaking fingers, panic clawing at my chest. She answered, her voice sharp and brittle. When I demanded to know why Nora was on my porch, she accused me of knowing and not telling them about the heart issue, about the responsibility they claimed they couldn’t handle. I stared at Nora’s sleeping face and said the only truth I knew: “She’s your daughter.” Silence stretched long and terrible before Claire said, flat and unrecognizable, “We never signed up for damaged goods,” and ended the call.