The Backpack, the Note, and Seven Words
Daniel crouched down, keeping his voice calm.
“Sweetheart… where are your parents? Did someone bring you here?”
She didn’t answer.
She just hugged the backpack tighter.
Daniel’s instincts kicked in. He brought her inside, wrapped her in a thick blanket, and set her on the couch.
She sat stiffly, eyes darting at every sound like she was waiting for someone to burst in and drag her away.
He tried to soften it.
“Hot chocolate?” he asked. “With marshmallows?”
She nodded once, barely.
While the kettle boiled, he checked the backpack for ID.
Inside: crayons, a juice box, a stuffed rabbit missing one ear… and a folded paper shoved in the side pocket.
He unfolded it.
“I can’t do this anymore. Take her.”
No name.
No signature.
No explanation.
Just seven words that dumped a child into the world like a problem someone wanted gone.
When Daniel looked back, she was asleep — curled up in the blanket, the mug untouched beside her.
He didn’t sleep at all that night.
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