I was a surrogate for my sister and her husband. Two days after the birth, they left the baby on my doorstep and vanished.

THE WICKER BASKET ON THE PORCH
On the sixth morning, a faint, rhythmic knocking at my front door pulled me away from making breakfast. I opened the door, expecting a delivery or a neighbor. Instead, I looked down to find a wicker basket sitting on the concrete.

Inside, wrapped in the same pink hospital blanket, was Nora. Her face was pale, her tiny fists clenched. Pinned to the fabric was a note in Claire’s elegant, familiar script: