My cousin’s a veteran rescuer—fearless. But when he sent me a photo of a baby swaddled in a starry blanket, he was shaken.
The baby came from Building 6. An abandoned, padlocked office. No families. No cribs. Yet the blanket was identical to the one buried months earlier with our aunt’s stillborn grandson.
At camp, the baby cried only in my cousin’s arms. Aunt Rosa later confessed she’d placed a Saint Anthony medal in the coffin and prayed her grandson wouldn’t be lost. That same medal was tucked into the baby’s blanket.
No one claimed him. My cousin grew attached, named him Mateo, and guardianship came easily—too easily.
Two years later, a woman arrived with proof: Mateo was her son, lost during the flood. But the sealed building, the grave blanket, the medal—those mysteries remain.
Mateo’s story never made sense. But not everything real does. Some miracles are stitched from grief, faith, and love.