These are not babies someone forgot.
These are babies someone hid.
The smallest one starts to whimper, and the sound punches straight through your ribs. Suddenly you are no longer standing in Ashford Park. You are five again, sitting on a plastic mattress in the children’s home, staring at the front door long after visiting hours end. You are listening to Sister Bernadette say, in that careful voice adults use when they want to bury the knife politely, that sometimes families have reasons children are too young to understand.
You understood enough.
You understood no one came back.
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