Three weeks before graduation, I had discovered Noah abandoned outside St. Catherine’s Clinic inside a cardboard carrier, bundled in a hospital blanket. His mother had p@ssed away from complications soon after delivering him.
Nobody knew his father. No relatives or grandparents ever appeared.
“He’ll go into the system,” the social worker explained.
I stared at his tiny fingers wrapped around mine and remembered myself at six years old, sitting inside a county office while unfamiliar adults debated over who would be forced to take me.
“No,” I replied. “He comes home with me.”
Temporary guardianship was granted because I had previously completed foster-care certification through my social work studies. Marlene dismissed the decision as nothing more than a stunt.
Vanessa described it as evidence that I was “trash collecting trash.”
