Friends urged him to remarry, to rebuild his life and fill the void that grief had left behind. But Richard could not imagine starting over. He was bound to a promise Anne had whispered during her final days: “Don’t let love die with me. Give it somewhere to go.”
That promise carried him forward, though he didn’t yet understand where it would lead—until one rainy night when his old pickup truck broke down near St. Mary’s Orphanage on the edge of town. Seeking a phone, he stepped inside, shaking off the rain, when the sound of soft, uneven crying caught his attention. Following it down a dim hallway, he came upon a small room lined with cribs. Inside were nine infant girls—all with dark skin and wide brown eyes, all reaching up with tiny hands.
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