Chapter 66 The Baby in the System
Thursday arrived too fast. Damian wore a suit. I wore a dress. We drove to the hospital in silence, holding hands over the console. The sky was gray, threatening rain, but neither of us mentioned it.
Sarah Jennings met us in the lobby. Her smile was small but genuine. "Thank you for coming. My supervisor is waiting. She's been reviewing your case personally."
The supervisor's name was Margaret Cole. Gray hair, sharp eyes, a no‑nonsense voice. She didn't stand when we entered. "I'll be direct. We don't usually place infants with families who have no prior relationship. But your file is extraordinary."
Damian leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. "We have four children. A stable home. Financial security. And love to give. More than enough."
Margaret nodded slowly. "We've reviewed your background. The medical challenges, the environmental discoveries, and your persistence. The question is whether you understand what you're taking on."
I spoke. "We've taken on genetic disorders, environmental toxins, and years of medical mystery. We're not afraid of hard. We've lived hard."
Margaret looked at me for a long moment. Then she slid a folder across the table. "The baby's name is Jane. Temporary. She's three weeks old. Healthy, but she needs a family. No one has come forward."
Damian opened the folder. A photo of a sleeping infant. Dark hair. Tiny fingers curled into fists. My heart cracked open.
"Can we meet her?" he asked.
Margaret stood. "Follow me."
The nursery was small, quiet, and painted pale blue. Jane slept in a bassinet near the window, wrapped in a white blanket with pink trim. A monitor beeped softly, rhythmically.
I touched her hand through the crib rail. She curled her fingers around mine, instinctively, perfectly.
Damian stood beside me. "She's so small."
"Three weeks. No one to hold her at night. No one to sing to her."
He put his arm around me. "That could change. Today."
The social worker gave us time. I lifted Jane from the bassinet. She was weightless, warm. I held her against my chest. She woke, blinked, stared at me with unfocused eyes. I rocked her. She didn't cry.
Damian whispered, "She knows."
"Knows what?"
"That we're here to help. That she's safe."
We went home with paperwork. Fostering papers. Background checks. Home studies. The children were in school. The house was empty except for Waffle, who sniffed the papers and lay down.
Damian sat at the kitchen table, staring at the forms. "We're really doing this."
I sat across from him. "We're really doing this."
"What if the mother comes back?"
"Then we cross that bridge. But right now, there's a baby with no one. No name. No home."
He signed the first page. "One step at a time."
We told the children that evening. Rose listened without interrupting, her gray eyes steady. Lily cried into her rabbit. Max asked if the baby would like dinosaurs. Leo asked where she would sleep.
"The yellow room?" Rose said.
"No. The yellow room is yours. She'll sleep in our room for now. In a bassinet."
Rose nodded. "I can help. I can read to her."
Lily wiped her eyes. "Will she stay forever?"
"We don't know. But while she's with us, she'll be loved. That's what matters."
Max raised his hand. "Can I teach her to play?"
"When she's older. When she can hold things."
Leo asked, "What's her name?"
"Jane. For now. The hospital named her."
Rose stood. "Jane. That's a good name. Simple. Strong."
The home study took two weeks. A social worker came to our house three times. She asked questions about our marriage, our finances, and our health. She checked every room, every closet, every outlet cover. The children were on their best behavior. Waffle did not bite anyone.
Jane stayed at the hospital, growing stronger every day. We visited every afternoon. I fed her bottles. Damian rocked her to sleep. Rose read to her from her notebook. Lily sang soft songs. Max showed her his dinosaur collection through the nursery window. Leo explained the solar system.
The nurses smiled when we arrived. "She knows your voices," one said.
Damian held Jane against his chest. "She knows."
The approval came on a Tuesday. Damian's phone rang while we were making dinner. The children were at the table, drawing.
"Mr. Blackwood, your home study is approved. You can take Jane home tomorrow morning."
He put the phone on speaker. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow at nine. The hospital will discharge her to your care."
I dropped the wooden spoon. It clattered on the floor. The children cheered.
Rose ran to her room and returned with a stuffed bunny. "For Jane."
Lily brought a soft blanket from her bed. Max brought a small dinosaur. Leo brought a star chart he had made himself.
Damian looked at me, his eyes wet. "We're bringing her home."
"We're bringing her home."
The next morning, we drove to the hospital. The children stayed with Rosa. Damian and I walked to the nursery together.
Jane was awake, dressed in a yellow onesie. A nurse handed her to me. I held her close, felt her heartbeat against mine.
"Ready?" Damian asked.
"Ready."
We walked out of the hospital, into the sun. Jane blinked at the light, made a small sound.
Damian opened the car door. I buckled her into the car seat, making sure the straps were snug.
"Our fifth child," he said.
"Our fifth child."
The children were waiting on the porch. Rose held a sign: "Welcome Home, Jane." Lily blew bubbles into the air. Max held a dinosaur in each hand. Leo had his telescope pointed at the sky, though it was daytime.
Damian carried Jane up the steps. The children gathered around.
"She's so tiny," Lily whispered.
"She's perfect," Rose said.
Max held out a small green dinosaur. "This is for you. He's a protector."
We went inside. Jane slept in a bassinet in our bedroom, next to the window where the morning light would reach her. The white pipe hummed. The garden bloomed. Waffle sniffed the bassinet and wagged his tail.
That night, after the children were asleep, Damian and I sat on the porch. Jane slept between us in a small carrier, her face peaceful.
"A baby," he said.
"A baby."
"Not ours by blood. But ours. Completely ours."
I looked at the stars. "Family isn't about blood. It's about who shows up. Who stays?"
He kissed my forehead. "We showed up. We stayed."
We sat in silence, watching the night. The fan hummed. The crickets sang. Jane made a small sound. I lifted her out of the carrier. She stared at me with dark, curious eyes, her tiny hand reaching up.
"Welcome home, Jane," I whispered.
She blinked. Then she smiled.