Like other mornings, the one that altered my life started out quietly, chilly, and weighed down by fatigue. The sky was still wounded from the night when I left the downtown office building where I had been cleaning floors before sunrise, shortly after six o’clock. My body ached in the same way it had come to expect, and my mind was immediately turning to my house, my four-month-old kid, and the little nap I planned to have before the day started.
I had given birth by myself four months before. I was five months pregnant when my beloved spouse passed away from cancer. He was never able to hold our son, see him, or hear the words “it’s a boy.” I never cried so hard as I did when the doctor pronounced it, not out of happiness but rather because I knew that my husband’s greatest goal would never be realized.
Since then, everything has been about surviving. We cried together, changed diapers, pumped milk, fed at night, and slept in bits and pieces that hardly amounted up. I had no choice but to work. Before daybreak, I spent just enough time cleaning offices in a financial complex to cover my rent and buy diapers. Ruth, my mother-in-law, kept an eye on my son while I was at work. I would have fallen apart long ago without her.
I heard it that morning as I drew my jacket closer to the freezing air.
A scream.
I initially believed that I was deceiving myself. Phantom cries have accompanied me everywhere since I became a mother. However, this sound sliced through both silence and highway noise. It was real, thin, and urgent.
I stopped moving.
Once more, the wail was sharper. As I followed the sound to a nearby bus station, my heart started to rush. I noticed the bench at that point.
From a distance, it appeared to be a forgotten bundle, possibly rubbish or clothes. Then it moved, though. A small, trembling fingers slipped from a cover.
I froze.
The truth struck me with chilling clarity as I took a step closer. On the chilly bench, a newborn infant lay abandoned, his body trembling, his lips pallid, and his cheeks crimson from sobbing. There was nobody on the street. Not a stroller. Not a bag. Not a panicked mom hurrying home.
“Hello?” Panic swelling in my throat, I let out a cry. “Who’s here?”
No response. There was only wind, distant traffic, and a baby whose screams were becoming softer.
My hands were trembling so much that I was barely able to pull the blanket away as I knelt. He had extremely cold skin. I felt fear as if it were lightning. I instinctively picked him up and held him against my chest in an attempt to keep him warm and secure.
I repeatedly whispered, “It’s okay,” even though I wasn’t sure I believed it. “I’ve got you.”
I took one last glance around, hoping someone would show up. Nobody did.
So I took off running.
With my scarf wrapped over his small head, I pulled him tight while my boots banged against the frozen pavement. His cries had become feeble whimpers by the time I arrived at my apartment building, but my arms were numb.
When I stormed through the door, Ruth was in the kitchen. After glancing at me, she let go of the spoon.
Breathlessly, I exclaimed, “There was a baby.” He was by himself. freezing.
She didn’t ask me any questions. “Feed him,” was the only thing she said as she lightly caressed his cheek. Right now.
Something inside of me changed as I tended to that frail stranger. His body eventually relaxed as his small hand gripped my shirt. I whispered that he was safe, tears streaming down my cheeks.
But reality soon came back. We dialed the cops. Calm and courteous officers showed up and reassured me that I had done the right thing. The hush that followed as they removed him from my arms was intolerable. Until Ruth held me, I sobbed.
The following day flew by. I couldn’t get him off my mind. He was where? Was he warm? Was he being held by someone?
My phone rang that night. An unknown number.
A man said, “This is about the baby you found.” “We must get together. Today. Put this address in writing.
My stomach dropped at the location. Every morning, I cleaned offices in the same building.
I was standing in the lobby at four o’clock. I was sent to the top floor by security. I walked inside a calm, well-kept office where strength was evident everywhere. Behind a huge desk sat a man with silver hair.
“That baby is my grandson,” he uttered in a broken voice.
He had seen his son leave. His daughter-in-law was abandoned, overburdened, and in a difficult situation. She was unable to continue, according to the note she left. The infant wouldn’t have lived if I hadn’t passed that bench.
With tears in his eyes, the man thanked me while kneeling in front of me.
After a few weeks, everything was different. After training, I was offered a new position. I took care of my son and studied late at night. It was draining. It was horrible. However, I persisted.
We eventually relocated to a brightly lit flat. I contributed to the design of the building’s little daycare area, which provided a secure location for working parents to drop off their kids. Alongside my kid, the baby I had discovered was now growing, laughing, and walking.
Occasionally, during peaceful periods, I remember that bench. To the scream that held me back. And to the decision that changed everything.
I did more than just save a child that morning.
I was able to save myself.