But it pays the bills, puts food on the table, and keeps the lights on for my kids.

Lily is three. Noah’s just eleven months. And their father left before Noah was born, and I haven’t heard from him since: no cards, no child support, not even a voicemail on our birthdays.

Just silence.

My mother lives with us and helps where she can. She’s the one who gets up early when I have late shifts, who kisses their foreheads when I can’t, and who knows when to hand me a cup of coffee without saying a word.

We take turns being exhausted.

Most nights, I finish my last route sometime close to midnight. By then, the streets are quiet, the sidewalks nearly empty, and the city feels like it’s holding its breath.

I do a quick sweep through the bus heading home, check the seats, pick up lost gloves or wrappers, and make sure that no one has tucked themselves into the back, hoping to ride out the cold.

Usually, I find nothing of value, maybe an old receipt or a candy wrapper. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, an unopened can of soda or a chocolate bar, and I get a bonus pick-me-up for the drive home.

But that night?

I found something else. Something that changed everything.

That night, the cold was cruel, the kind that cuts through your coat and finds your bones. The windows had fogged over from the inside, and every time I exhaled, the air turned white in front of my face.

I was already dreaming about my bed, about curling up next to my babies and breathing in that soft, warm scent that always lived in the crease of Noah’s neck.

The digital clock above the dashboard read 11:52 p.m. when I parked the bus. The yard was dark and empty. The other drivers had clocked out and headed home. I turned off the lights, grabbed my bag, and began my usual walk-through.

Halfway down the aisle, I heard something.

A cry.

It was weak and barely there. Not a shout, not even a wail. It was just a fragile, trembling sound that stopped me in my tracks.

I held my breath and listened.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice echoing faintly off the windows.

Nothing.

Then it came again, a whimper, softer now but no less urgent.

I moved toward the back, my heart already thudding. With each step, I scanned the seats, trying to see through the dim glow of the emergency exit light.

That’s when I saw it.

A little bundle curled up on the very last seat, wrapped in a pink blanket that glistened with frost.

I stepped closer, gently pulled the blanket back, and gasped.

“Oh, my God,” I gasped.

It was a baby.

Her skin was pale. Her lips were tinged blue. She wasn’t really crying anymore, just letting out weak, shivering breaths, like she’d run out of strength.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” I whispered, though I don’t remember making the choice to speak. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

I scooped her up, pressed her to my chest, and held her there, trying to share my body heat through my coat.

“There’s no one here,” I said, more to myself than anything. “No bag, no car seat… Who left you like this, baby?”

She didn’t answer, of course. She just breathed against me, faint and slow.

There was no bag, no diaper, no name. Just a piece of paper, folded once, tucked into her blanket. My hands shook as I opened it.

“Please forgive me. I can’t take care of her. Her name is Emma.”

That was all it said. No signature, no explanation, just those heartbreaking words.

I didn’t stop to think; I ran.

By the time I reached my car, my hands were numb, but I managed to open the door, start the engine, and crank the heat. I held her under my coat as I drove, whispering to her the entire time.