I called for help, stayed beside him, and watched a nurse carry him inside.
Later, I learned that his mother had died from complications after giving birth.
No father had been identified.
No grandparents came forward.
The social worker assigned to his case explained that he would probably enter the foster-care system once he was medically cleared.
She said it gently, as though she were trying to prepare me for something unavoidable.
I looked down at Oliver’s hand curled around my finger and remembered the county office where adults had debated who would be forced to take me.
“No,” I said. “He’s coming home with me.”
The social worker stared at me for a moment.
Then she asked whether I understood what I was saying.
I did.
Through my university’s social work program, I had already completed foster-care training and the required background checks for supervised placement work.
That did not make the process easy, and it did not make Oliver legally mine.
But it meant I was not a stranger making an impulsive promise in a hallway.
After an emergency review, the court approved temporary guardianship.
I brought Oliver home with a borrowed infant seat, a small bag of supplies, and instructions I reread so many times that the pages softened at the folds.
Pamela called it a publicity stunt.
She said I was trying to make myself look noble because the investigation was going to expose me.
Gemma was less careful.
She stood in the living room, looked into the bassinet, and said I was “trash collecting trash.”
I remember placing both hands around the edge of the bassinet because I was afraid that if I looked at her, I would say something I could never take back.
Oliver stretched beneath the blanket and made a small sound.
That was enough to bring me back to what mattered.
I lifted him, carried him upstairs, and shut the door.
That night, I made the decision Pamela had not expected.
I would attend graduation.
