It all started like a regular Thursday evening. I was in the kitchen, covered in flour, baking cookies with my little boy, Derrick. He’s five, full of energy, and right now, more paint than person. His latest “masterpiece” was a wild swirl of color he proudly called a dinosaur. “Mommy, look at my dinosaur!” Derrick grinned, holding it up like a trophy. I laughed and ruffled his hair. “Wow, buddy! That’s the most colorful dinosaur I’ve ever seen. You’re getting so good!” The sweet smell of vanilla and chocolate filled

I’m twenty-seven years old and thirty-nine weeks pregnant. And even now—after everything that just happened—my head is still spinning like a top. But to really understand, I need to go back a bit. I didn’t grow up with a safety net. No parents to call when things got tough, no aunts or uncles or siblings to run to. I was one of those foster kids who carried her own paperwork between schools and packed her life into plastic grocery bags. I learned fast how to stay quiet, how to shrink

Life has a strange way of bringing the past back when you least expect it. For me, that moment came the day a beautiful stranger walked into my room—and turned my world upside down. My name is Agatha. I’m in my early 70s, and for most of my life, I’ve lived quietly, almost like I was invisible. I never got married. I didn’t have children. My family was small and slowly drifted away with time. I spent nearly 30 years working as a cashier at a college cafeteria. That job