When they ask your name, you say it quietly, like your life is suddenly being filed into someone else’s paperwork.
You go home at sunrise, dripping rain onto your cracked linoleum, and the first thing you do is stare at your empty room.
A mattress on the floor. A hot plate. A used phone. The kind of life that’s barely a life.
You tell yourself you did the right thing, that the baby will go to safe hands now.
But your chest keeps aching like you left part of your heart in that hospital bassinet.
Two days later, the social worker calls.
“Mr. Morales?” she says, using your last name like it’s a distance.
“We couldn’t locate family. The baby will enter foster care.”
Your stomach drops, because you’ve heard stories, and not all of them end well.
You hear your own voice before you decide to use it.
“Can I… can I foster her?” you ask.
There’s a silence long enough for fear to bloom, and you almost take it back.
Then she says, carefully, “You don’t meet the income requirements.”
The shame hits fast, but you shove it down.
“What if I get a second job?” you blurt. “What if I—”
“You need a stable home,” she says gently. “And a background check. And references. It’s not impossible… but it’s not quick.”
You hang up and stare at your hands.
They’re rough, calloused, poor.
But they held a newborn in a storm and kept her alive long enough to reach warmth.
You decide you’re not going to let “not quick” be the end of the sentence.
You start running your life like a rescue mission.
You take every ride, every delivery, every odd job you can find.
You sleep four hours a night and eat noodles like it’s a food group.
You ask your building manager for a letter. You ask your pastor. You ask Ms. Rosa, who cries and says, “Of course, mijo,” as if your kindness has finally come back around to you.
Months pass in paperwork and waiting rooms.
You attend classes about infant care that make you feel both terrified and determined.
You get fingerprinted, interviewed, inspected.
A caseworker walks through your apartment with a clipboard, noting the smoke detector, the outlet covers, the small crib you bought used but scrubbed until it looked new.
When she asks why you’re doing this, you don’t try to sound noble.
“Because she grabbed my jacket,” you say.
“And it felt like… if I walked away, I’d be walking away from my own soul.”
Finally, you get the call.
“Diego,” the social worker says, and you can hear a smile in her exhaustion.
“If you still want her… you’re approved as a foster placement.”
You sit down hard on your mattress because your legs forget how to hold you.
You press a hand over your mouth to keep from making a sound too big for your tiny room.
Then you cry anyway, quietly, because you’re poor but you’re not empty.
When you pick her up, she’s wrapped in a clean blanket with a hospital bracelet still on her wrist, tiny as a promise.
They tell you she’s been listed as “Baby Girl Doe” in the system, and they ask if you want to name her.
Your throat tightens because naming is power, and you’ve never been given much of it.
You look at her face.
Her eyes open slowly, dark and curious, and for a second you swear she recognizes your heartbeat.
You whisper, “Luna,” because she showed up in the darkest night and survived.
And the nurse smiles like she approves of hope.
Raising a baby on a rideshare driver’s income isn’t cute.
It’s sleep deprivation and busted budgets and praying the diaper coupons don’t expire early.
It’s balancing Luna on your hip while you warm bottles, while your phone pings for orders, while the landlord’s footsteps sound like a threat.
It’s Ms. Rosa rocking Luna so you can shower for three minutes like you’re stealing luxury.
But the neighborhood becomes your village.
The bodega owner slips you formula when you’re short.
The mechanic fixes your scooter “next time you pay.”
On Sundays, the pastor prays over Luna like she’s a miracle Chicago forgot it still makes.
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