Chapter 65 The Message
We had been home three days. The suitcases were unpacked. The shells Max requested sat on his dresser. Rose had written four new pages of her story. Life was normal. Quiet. Happy.
Then Damian's phone buzzed.
He was making coffee. I was folding laundry. He glanced at the screen, and his whole body went still. His hand froze mid‑pour. Coffee spilled over the rim of the mug.
"What is it?" I asked.
He turned the phone toward me. A text from an unknown number.
Mr. Blackwood, my name is Sarah Jennings. I'm a social worker at County Hospital. A baby was left at our facility last night. The mother left a note saying you are the father. Please call me.
The room tilted. I set down the shirt I was holding.
"That's not possible," Damian said.
I took the phone. Read the message again. "Is it possible?"
"I haven't— There's no one. Only you. Only ever you. Not since the divorce. Not before."
I handed the phone back. "Then someone is lying. Or someone is desperate."
He didn't call immediately. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the screen. I sat beside him, my knee touching his.
"Damian."
"I haven't been with anyone else. You have to believe me."
"I believe you."
"Then who is this?"
I took his hand. "We find out. Together."
He called the number. A woman answered. Professional. Calm.
"Mr. Blackwood, thank you for calling. I know this is shocking."
"Who is the mother?"
The social worker hesitated. "She didn't give her name. She left the baby at the front desk with a note and disappeared. Security cameras captured her face, but we haven't identified her yet."
Damian's voice was tight. "What makes her think the baby is mine?"
"The note had your name, your company, and a date. Approximately nine months ago. It also mentioned a party at your office building."
Nine months ago. We were together. Married. Living in the same house. Damian rarely went to office parties.
"This is a mistake," Damian said. "I haven't—"
"Mr. Blackwood, I'm not making an accusation. I'm asking you to come in and provide a DNA sample. That's the only way to know for sure."
I squeezed his hand. "We'll come. Tell us when."
The children were at school. We drove to the hospital in silence. The building was large, gray, anonymous. The social worker met us in the lobby.
Sarah Jennings was young, with kind eyes and a gentle voice. She led us to a small room with a box of tissues on the table.
"The baby is a girl. Healthy. About three weeks old. She's in our care while we sort this out."
Damian's jaw was tight. "Can we see her?"
"After the DNA test. I'm sorry. It's protocol. But I can tell you she has dark hair and blue eyes. Very alert."
A nurse came in. A cheek swab. Thirty seconds of silence. Then we waited.
The results took two days. We didn't tell the children. We didn't tell anyone.
Damian barely slept. He paced the hallway at night. He checked his phone every few minutes. He stared at the ceiling in the dark.
On the second afternoon, Sarah Jennings called.
"Mr. Blackwood, the DNA test is negative. You are not the father. There's no genetic match."
Damian collapsed into a chair. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
"Do you know who the father is?" he asked.
"Not yet. But we'll keep searching. I'm sorry for the distress. We had to follow the lead."
After she hung up, Damian put his head in his hands.
"Someone used my name."
"Someone made a mistake."
"A mistake that felt like a grenade. I thought I was going to lose everything."
I knelt beside him. "But it's over. It's not yours. We're okay."
He looked at me. "I thought you might leave."
"You're not going to lose me."
"I thought you wouldn't believe me."
I cupped his face. "I believed you. I never doubted."
That night, after the children were asleep, we sat on the porch. The stars were bright. Waffle lay at our feet, snoring softly.
"I keep thinking about that baby," Damian said. "Somewhere out there, without a mother. Without a father who wants her. Just a note and a name."
"You can't save every child."
"I know. But I can save this one."
I looked at him. "What do you mean?"
He turned to me. "We have four children. We have a house full of love. We have room. We have experience with doctors and therapies and all of it."
"You want to adopt her?"
"I want to think about it. I want to talk to the social worker. I want to see if she needs a home."
I stared at him. A baby. A stranger's baby. A child who had been left behind with a lie.
"We're already managing four medical conditions," I said.
"We're managing them. They're stable. The vitamins are working. And this baby is healthy according to the initial checkup."
"We don't know that for sure."
"Neither do we know that she isn't."
I looked out at the garden. The marigolds were blooming. The white pipe hummed in the night air.
"How would we even start?"
"I call Sarah Jennings. I ask about fostering. About adoption. About giving this baby a home. We take it one step at a time."
I took his hand. "You're serious."
"I'm serious. I've wasted too many years being afraid. I'm not going to be afraid of this. Not anymore."
The next morning, Damian made the call. I listened from the kitchen, holding my coffee mug.
"Ms. Jennings, this is Damian Blackwood. I know I'm not the father, but I'd like to talk about the baby. About fostering. About giving her a home."
Silence. Then: "Mr. Blackwood, are you serious?"
"More serious than I've ever been. My wife and I have discussed it."
"I'll need to talk to my supervisor. This is unusual. People usually run away from this situation, not toward it."
"I understand. But that baby deserves a family. And I have one. A good one."
He hung up. I went to him.
"Damian."
"Ava."
"We're really doing this?"
He pulled me into his arms. "We're really doing this."
The phone buzzed. A text from Sarah Jennings.
My supervisor approves a meeting. Thursday at 10 a.m. Bring your wife. I'll have the baby there.
I looked at the screen. Thursday. Two days away.
"Are you scared?" I asked.
"Terrified."
"Good terrified or bad terrified?"
He kissed my forehead. "The kind of terrified that means we're alive. The kind that means we're choosing something new."
We stood in the kitchen, holding each other, while the morning light filled the room.
A baby. A stranger's baby. A new beginnings.