It began one chilly November afternoon. Margaret had been folding laundry when the news played on the local radio:
Margaret froze, her hands trembling over a folded towel. The reporter’s voice moved on to another story, but her heart didn’t. Something about the way he said abandoned pierced her. She couldn’t stop picturing the baby — tiny, helpless, alone.
For days, she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that baby’s face, though she had never seen it. She felt an unexplainable pull — a whisper in her heart saying, You’re meant to find her.
Finally, unable to ignore it any longer, she drove to the hospital. She wasn’t sure what she’d say, only that she had to go.
When a nurse led her to the neonatal unit, Margaret saw the infant lying in a clear plastic crib, wrapped in a soft yellow blanket. Her eyes were closed, her hands curled into tiny fists.
Margaret pressed her hand against the glass — and the baby stirred, stretching slightly, as if recognizing her touch.
That was it. Something inside her broke open and filled with light. “Her name,” Margaret whispered, “will be Clara. Because she’s a bright light in a dark world.”
Defying the Doubts
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