I found the baby one winter morning, crying in the hallway of my building in Vallecas.
My name is María López; I was thirty years old at the time, working as a nursing assistant, and living alone.
When I opened the door to take out the trash, I heard a faint, almost muffled cry. There he was: wrapped in a cheap blanket, his skin cold, with a folded piece of paper in his pocket that simply said, “Forgive me.”There was no one else around. I called the police and social services, but no one claimed the child. After weeks of paperwork, they offered to foster him temporarily. I named him Daniel.
The “temporary” became permanent. Daniel grew up amidst my long shifts, homework at the kitchen table, and Sundays playing soccer in the park.
I never hid the truth from him: he knew he wasn’t born to me, but he was born of my decision.
