My hospital shifts were usually calm—routine checkups, soft newborn cries, helping new moms. But Room 203 broke the pattern.
Inside sat a little boy, maybe four years old, gently holding a newborn. His face was streaked with tears. No parents. No family. Just a folded note on the pillow:
“Please take care of my babies. I can’t provide for them. I hope they find the love they deserve. I’m sorry.”
I knelt beside him, heart aching.
“Hi there,” I said softly. “What’s your name?”
He looked up. “Tommy,” he whispered.
The room was still—but full of love, and quiet heartbreak.
