uneven crying caught his attention. Following it down a dim hallway, he came upon a small room lined with cribs. Inside were nine infant girls—all with dark skin and wide brown eyes, all reaching up with tiny hands.
The crying was layered and disjointed—one whimpering, another wailing, several fussing at once, a heartbreaking chorus of need. Richard stood frozen. Nine babies.
A young nurse noticed his expression and spoke gently. The girls, she explained, had been found abandoned together on the church steps in the middle of the night, wrapped in the same blanket. “No names. No notes,” she said quietly. “People come to adopt one or two, but never all. They’ll be separated soon.”
That word—separated—pierced him. Richard thought of Anne’s last wish, of her belief that family was not defined by blood but by love and choice. His throat tightened. “What if someone took them all?” he asked softly.
The nurse almost laughed. “All nine? Sir, no one could raise nine infants—especially alone, without money. People would honte stupi think you’ve lost your mind.”
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