As a flight attendant, I’d seen many unusual situations, but finding a newborn abandoned on a business class seat was unprecedented. Wrapped in a blue blanket, the baby, named Matthew by his mother, came with a note: a young mother, unable to provide for him, asked that he be cherished, with the last name Harris. My heart broke for her desperate choice.
I felt an instant connection to Matthew. My husband, Deon, and I, childless and dreaming of adoption, saw this as fate. The adoption process was complex, but we named him Matthew Harris Thomas, honoring his birth mother’s wish while making him ours. At thirteen, I shared the note with Matthew, explaining his mother’s love and sacrifice. He took it thoughtfully, asking if she loved him. I assured him she did.
Years later, Rhonda, his birth mother, called. She’d been a struggling 19-year-old when she left him. Hesitant but sensing Matthew’s need for closure, I arranged a meeting. At a café, Rhonda explained her homelessness and regret. Matthew listened, asking why she didn’t try raising him. They parted with a nod of understanding.
Now 23, Matthew thrives, forgiving Rhonda while calling me “Mom.” My job brought me unexpected joy—my son, found on a plane.
