We tried everything—swaddling, gentle rocking, even switching lullabies on the little Bluetooth speaker by the warmer—but nothing calmed her. The newborn, found alone in a car during a routine traffic stop, had been crying nonstop for nearly two hours. No ID, no baby bag—just a thin blanket and a pacifier on the floor. Her tiny fists were clenched, face flushed, lungs straining with every wail.
Then Officer Mendez walked in. He wasn’t supposed to be in the NICU—only there to file a report—but when he saw her, something in his expression changed. “Can I hold her?” he asked softly. We hesitated, then nodded.
The moment she was in his arms, she went silent. He held her gently, one hand cradling her head, the other resting over her heart. She looked up at him—not just comforted, but somehow connected.
He leaned in and whispered something only she could hear.
That’s when a nurse glanced at his file and her eyes widened. “Officer, you said you had a daughter… but…” He stayed silent.
The nurse continued, “Your daughter died… three years ago. A car crash.” The room fell quiet except for the steady beep of the monitors. Everyone waited for his response.
Mendez smiled softly, not with happiness but with a deep ache. “I know. Not a day goes by I don’t miss her.”
The atmosphere grew heavy. Was this fate or something else?
As Mendez prepared to leave, the baby whimpered again. He paused, torn. Then, gently, he handed her back to the nurse, brushing her cheek with his fingertip.
“She deserves a shot,” he murmured quietly, then left the NICU without another word.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way the baby looked at him—like she might somehow remember him too.