It was just after six. I was still in my robe, hair half-clipped up, standing there with my coffee cooling in one hand.
I’d opened the door because someone had rung the bell once, quick and sharp, the way people do when they don’t want to be caught waiting.
There was a baby on my porch.
Not a doll, not my mind playing tricks on me. A real baby, tiny and pink, and blinking up at me.
I thought I was dreaming.
She was wrapped in a faded denim jacket.
My knees almost gave out. I knew that jacket.
I had bought it for my daughter, Jennifer, when she was fifteen. She’d rolled her eyes and said, « Mom, it’s not vintage if it still smells like somebody else’s perfume. »
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