work as a home health aide. Mostly elderly clients, sometimes people with disabilities or recent surgeries. That morning, I had a new assignment—just a note that said “infant care, temporary emergency placement,” with an address and a start time. No real explanation.
When I got there, the woman barely looked at me. Handed over a diaper bag, a clipboard, and a chubby little boy with the brightest grin I’ve ever seen.
This is Lenny,” she said. “You’re on call until further notice.”
No background, no file. Just… trust. Which, honestly, isn’t that weird in my line of work. Emergency placements are fast and messy. I figured paperwork would follow.
Lenny attached to me instantly. He laughed at everything I said, held onto my finger like it was the only thing holding him to Earth. I took him for a drive after lunch to help him nap—but of course he didn’t sleep. He giggled and pointed and babbled the whole way.
I snapped a quick selfie to send to my supervisor. Just proof-of-care. Standard stuff.
But she called me thirty seconds later.
“Where exactly did you get that baby?”
I told her the address. Re-read the notes. She went silent.
That placement was canceled yesterday,” she finally said. “The child was never dropped off. That caregiver backed out. We haven’t assigned anyone.”
I stared at Lenny, who was still smiling at me like I’d known him forever.
“Then who gave him to me?” I asked.
And that’s when I noticed something inside the diaper bag—