Finding Abel

The scent of freshly laundered baby clothes filled the air, a comforting aroma that usually brought a smile to my face. Today, however, it mingled with a bitter tang of grief. It had been a year since Denis, my brilliant husband and partner, had been taken from me in a senseless act of violence while on duty. A former FBI agent myself, I had retired, eager to build the family we'd always dreamed of.

Now, the nursery, meticulously prepared for a child we’d planned to adopt, felt like a monument to what was lost. Days after we received news of a baby boy, Denis was gone. I feared the agency would pull back, seeing a single, grieving mother as an unstable candidate. But they didn't. They brought me Abel.

Abel, nearly two, with eyes that held an innocence I hadn't realized I desperately needed. He arrived with a heart condition, a legacy of a life before me. Maureen Ashby, the woman who delivered him, had insisted he keep his name. The adoption had been strange, documents feeling off to my trained eye, but a quick check with old connections yielded no missing persons report. So I let it go. How could I not, when his small hand gripped my finger so tightly?