The first thing Melissa noticed when she arrived was the cardboard box beside the spare room.
She glanced at it, then at me. "You've been thinking about the baby."
I folded my arms, suddenly self-conscious. "We've been trying not to get ahead of ourselves."
"That's understandable," she said. "But it's also normal to imagine what caring for a child might look like."
James appeared from the kitchen carrying three cups of coffee. He placed them on the dining table and pulled out a chair. The boys were at school, leaving the house unusually quiet for a weekday morning.
Melissa had come to conduct our initial home assessment. We had spent the previous evening cleaning, although the house was already reasonably tidy. I had wiped the kitchen counters twice and rearranged the cushions in the living room until James gently suggested that the social worker probably wasn't evaluating our decorating skills.
Now, with her folder open and her pen poised, the reality of the process began to sink in.
She asked to see the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the kitchen, and the space we had identified as a possible nursery. Her questions were practical. Where would the baby sleep? How would we keep cleaning products secured? Who would care for her when I needed to take one of the boys to an appointment? Did we have a plan for overnight feeding and emergencies?
James answered some questions. I answered others. A few required us to look at each other before admitting that we hadn't thought far enough ahead.
When Melissa entered the spare room, she stopped beside the desk.
"Would you need to make major changes here?"
"Probably," I said. "We'd have to move the desk and clear the storage bins."
"That's manageable," she replied. "The important thing is that the baby has a safe sleeping area and that you understand the care requirements."
I looked at the window, imagining the crib I had not allowed myself to picture too clearly.
"What about the fact that I was told another pregnancy could kill me?" I asked.
Melissa closed her folder halfway.
"That would be relevant to your assessment, particularly in understanding your medical needs and how much physical strain you can reasonably manage. Adoption and foster care don't require pregnancy, but caring for a newborn is still demanding."
"I know."
"And we would want you to have a realistic support plan rather than assuming you can do everything yourself."
I appreciated that she didn't dismiss my concerns. For years, the medical warning had shaped the boundaries of my life. I had learned to treat my body as something that required careful management rather than something I could simply push through exhaustion.
Taking in a newborn would not change that.
After the house tour, we returned to the dining room. Melissa asked us to talk about our marriage, our parenting styles, and how we handled disagreements.
James admitted that he tended to solve problems before discussing them.
I laughed. "That's an understatement."
He gave me a look.
Melissa smiled but kept writing.
I explained that I often needed time to think before making decisions, especially when they involved the children. James sometimes interpreted my hesitation as a refusal, while I occasionally mistook his eagerness for impatience.
"How would you manage a disagreement about the baby's care?" Melissa asked.
"We'd talk about it," James said.
I raised an eyebrow.
"We'd try to talk about it," he corrected.
That earned a small laugh from all three of us.
The conversation became more serious when Melissa asked whether we understood that the baby's placement might be temporary. There could be legal questions, relatives who had not yet been located, and decisions beyond our control.
"I understand," I said.
"Do you think you could care for her and then have her leave?"
I looked at the coffee cup in front of me.
"I don't know. I think it would hurt terribly. But that can't be the only thing we consider."
Melissa nodded.
"That's an important part of the process. The baby's needs have to remain central, even when the adults become emotionally attached."
After she left, James walked her to the door. I stayed at the dining table, staring at the notes I had made during the visit.
We had talked about bottles, sleeping arrangements, and emergency contacts. We had discussed how the boys might react and how we would protect their routines.
But there was one question I couldn't stop thinking about.
What had Anna wanted for her daughter?
Not what we wanted. Not what James hoped to do because Anna had once been part of his life. Not what I had imagined during the years when I thought I would never have a daughter.
What had Anna herself hoped would happen?
That afternoon, I asked James whether the hospital had given him any of Anna's personal belongings or documents.
He shook his head.
"Nothing beyond the information they needed for the case."
"Did she leave a letter?"
"Not that anyone has mentioned."
"Any instructions about the baby?"
"Apparently, there was no formal guardianship arrangement."
I sat beside him on the sofa.
"Then we should ask whether there's anyone who knew her well enough to tell us what she wanted."
James nodded.
"I've been thinking about that too."
He called Melissa the next morning. She explained that the authorities were continuing to investigate Anna's family history and that she couldn't disclose every detail while the case was active.
However, she agreed to pass along our request for information about Anna's wishes and any available records that might help establish the baby's background.
Two days later, she called us back.
There was someone who might be able to provide more information.
A woman named Patricia had worked with Anna for several years. She had been listed as an emergency contact on one of Anna's recent employment records, although the hospital had not initially been able to reach her.
Melissa had located a current telephone number.
James wrote it down, then stared at the paper for a long time.
"Do you want to call her?" I asked.
He nodded.
We made the call together that evening after the boys had gone to bed.
A woman answered on the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi. My name is James. I'm calling about Anna."
Silence followed.
Then her voice changed.
"Oh, God. Has something happened?"
James closed his eyes.
"I'm sorry. Anna died after giving birth."
A sharp breath came through the speaker. The woman began crying before she could say anything else.
We waited.
When she finally spoke, she told us she had known Anna for years. They had worked together at a small accounting office before Anna changed jobs. They had remained friends, meeting for lunch occasionally and exchanging messages when their schedules allowed.
"She was excited about the baby," Patricia said. "Terrified, too. But she loved that little girl before she was even born."
I pressed my hand against my mouth.
"Did she ever talk about what she wanted to happen if something went wrong?" I asked.
Patricia was quiet for a moment.
"She was afraid of being alone. She'd been through so much after her husband left."
James leaned closer to the phone.
"Did she mention me?"
"Yes."
His expression tightened.
"What did she say?"
"That you had once been kind to her. That you had a good family. She wondered whether you would remember her if she ever needed help."
I felt the words settle heavily in my chest.
Anna had not necessarily expected James to become a parent to her child. She might simply have remembered him as someone who had once made her feel safe.
Patricia continued.
"She didn't want her daughter to grow up feeling unwanted. She kept saying that. She wanted the baby to have a family who would love her, no matter what happened."
I looked at James.
He had gone very still.
"Did she ever talk about adoption?" he asked.
"Not specifically. She hoped she could raise the baby herself. But she was frightened about doing it alone."
The call lasted nearly an hour. Patricia described Anna's sense of humor, her stubbornness, and the way she had talked to her unborn child while waiting for the kettle to boil. She remembered Anna buying a small yellow blanket and refusing to let anyone else choose the baby's name.
"She called her Lily," Patricia said.
I closed my eyes.
Lily.
A name we hadn't heard before.
"Was that the name she planned to use officially?" I asked.
"Yes. She had already chosen it."
When the call ended, I sat without moving.
James placed the phone on the table.
"Lily," he whispered.
The name seemed to change the baby from an unnamed child at the hospital into a little person with a history, a mother, and a place in someone's heart.
I looked toward the spare room.
For the first time, I understood that if Lily came home with us, she would not be the daughter I had imagined years ago.
She would be Anna's daughter.
And that distinction was going to matter more than I had yet realized.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Name Anna Had Chosen and the Difficult Truth We Had to Share With Our Children
The Phone Call That Dragged Me Back Toward a Future I Had Spent Years Learning to Abandon
Part 5 of 20
