As sunset approached, I wandered toward a row of empty beach changing cubicles.
Then I heard it. A baby crying. Then a second one. I pulled back the curtain.
Two newborn girls lay on the sand, wrapped in one white and one pale pink towel, both embroidered with tiny blue sailboats.
Nobody else was there. No note. Nothing. Police searched for weeks. No missing mother ever came forward.
I visited the girls every day until a social worker finally asked, “Have you ever considered adopting them?”
I stared at their tiny faces. For the first time since burying my fiancée, I felt something besides grief.
Eighteen years later, Nora and Callie were the greatest thing that ever happened to me.
I worked two jobs. Skipped vacations. Gave up every luxury. I’d do it all over again.
