They say miracles come when you least expect them. That day, after yet another failed fertility treatment, I—Grace, 35—was emotionally shattered. For eight years, my husband Joshua and I tried to have a baby, enduring countless treatments and heartbreak.

Too numb to go home, I stopped at Riverside Park to clear my head. I sat on a bench and, exhausted from medication, dozed off. When I woke up, I was holding a newborn baby girl wrapped in a yellow blanket.Panicked, I looked around, but no one was near. In her tiny fist was a crumpled note:

Her name is Andrea. I can’t care for her. She’s yours now. Don’t look for me. Take care of her.”A diaper bag sat beside me, filled with baby essentials. Shaking, I called Joshua, who rushed over. We took Andrea to the police. The officers reviewed surveillance, but the woman who left her couldn’t be identified.

While changing Andrea’s diaper at the station, I noticed a small birthmark on her thigh — identical to one Joshua had. My heart dropped. I showed him. He turned pale.“Last year…