I watched my daughter-in-law dump a leather suitcase into the lake and speed away. When I heard the sound coming from inside, my legs gave out, and I started praying I was wrong.
It was a quiet October evening in our small lakeside town, the kind where nothing ever happens. I stood on the porch of the house where I’d raised my only son — the same house that felt unbearably empty since we buried him six months earlier.
The lake was calm, reflecting the autumn trees like a painting, when a car roared down the gravel road. Dust flew. Tires screeched. Cynthia — my son’s widow — slammed to a stop. She dragged out a heavy brown leather suitcase, the one I’d given her as a wedding gift.
Without looking back, she hurled it into the water. It floated briefly, then sank. She ran, tires squealing, dust swirling, leaving me frozen in disbelief.
Instinct overrode fear. I plunged into the icy water. The suitcase was heavier than it should have been. Then I heard it — a faint, muffled cry.
Hands trembling, I fought the zipper. Inside was a tiny baby, wrapped in a soaked blanket, pale and silent.
I pressed my ear to his chest. A heartbeat.
In that instant, my quiet grief exploded into sirens, flashing lights, and questions that would tear our family apart. And I had no idea yet… who this baby really was.
