After four long months working in Alaska, I came home craving the comfort of Rachel—my wife, my anchor. We’d built a life together, one rooted in love and understanding despite the long separations my job required. She always held things down while I worked the oil fields, sending care packages and notes that reminded me what I was working for. But this time, the house was silent. No welcome, no aroma from the kitchen—just silence.

“Rachel?” I called, but there was no answer. Then I heard it—a baby crying. Confused, I followed the sound to the kitchen. There, on the table, sat a bassinet with a tiny, crying infant wrapped in a pale blanket. And beside her—a note in Rachel’s handwriting. My hands trembled as I read: “Jake, I found this child on our doorstep. I always suspected you cheated during your trips. I’ve filed for divorce.”

Cheated? I had never once strayed. I had worked hard for us—for her. Stunned, I noticed another note, not Rachel’s. This one read: “To whoever finds her: Please take care of my daughter. I can’t keep her safe. Her name is Ava.”

Rachel was gone. She left without letting me explain, assuming the worst. And now, I was left with this baby—Ava—whose mother had vanished just as quickly. I sat there in silence, holding the child.

I didn’t plan to raise a child alone. But I couldn’t walk away either.

Weeks passed. The caseworker asked if I wanted to adopt her.

I said yes. Because Ava was mine now.