Nearly ten years after I last saw Greg, we met at a roadside diner off Route 9.

Halfway through our coffee, he told me something I couldn’t stop thinking about.

“We were the twentieth family to say no.”

I frowned.

“Say no to what?”

Greg slowly turned his coffee cup between his hands.

“To a baby girl.”

He hesitated before continuing.

“She has Down syndrome. We agreed to consider adopting her at first, but once we read through her medical file, we just couldn’t go through with it.”

I stared at him.

“How long has she been waiting?”

“Fourteen months. She’s at a group placement facility in Colfax.”

Greg looked down at the table.

“You have money, Julian. You’re single. Maybe you could help somehow. Pay for some of her care or donate something.”

I told him I’d think about it.

But the truth was, I thought about almost nothing else for the rest of the night.

At sunrise the following morning, I drove straight to Colfax.

I didn’t call ahead.

I didn’t make an appointment.

I simply walked into the county child placement center and asked about the baby girl Greg had mentioned.

The receptionist disappeared into the back.

I waited nearly forty minutes.

Then a woman returned carrying a small child dressed in a yellow sleeper.

Without asking whether I was prepared, she gently placed the baby in my arms.

“This is Maya.”

Maya wore only one sock.

She was warm and surprisingly heavy against my chest.

Before I could even adjust my grip, her tiny hand closed tightly around the collar of my jacket.

The woman smiled.

“She does that with everyone. She’s not especially selective.”

I don’t know why, but I stayed there holding her much longer than I had intended.

Eventually, I asked,

“Can I see her file?”

The woman hesitated.

“Most of it is medical information.”

“That’s okay.”

She handed me the folder and stepped away to answer a phone call.

I opened it.

Birth date.

Birth weight.

Hospital records.

Diagnosis confirmed four days after birth.

Then I turned to the second page.

And stopped.

I read one line.

Then read it again.

Slowly, I looked toward the desk.

“May I use your phone? Mine is in the car.”

The woman pushed the phone toward me.

I picked it up and dialed a number I hadn’t called in nine years.

PART 2

The phone rang four times.

Then a voice I knew immediately answered.

“Arthur Vance.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

Maya was still pressed against my chest, her tiny fingers gripping my jacket.

Nine years had passed since I had walked away from my brother Arthur.

Nine years since I abandoned the Vance family real estate business.

Nine years since endless disputes over money, properties, and control had finally pushed me out of the family entirely.

“Arthur,” I said.

There was silence on the other end.

Then his voice changed.

“Julian?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

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