We’d tried everything. Swaddling, gentle rocking, even switching lullabies on that little Bluetooth speaker near the warmer. Still, nothing soothed her. The newborn—found alone in the backseat of a car during a routine traffic stop—had been crying for almost two hours straight. Her face was flushed, fists clenched, lungs straining with every wail.
No ID. No baby bag. Just a thin blanket and a pacifier tossed on the floor.
Then Officer Mendez walked in.
He wasn’t supposed to be in the NICU—he was just there to submit the report. But when he caught sight of her, that tiny trembling form under the fluorescent lights, something shifted in his expression. I saw it. We all did.
“Can I hold her?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
We hesitated… then nodded.
The moment she was in his arms, she went quiet. Instantly.
He sat down like it was second nature, one hand gently supporting her head, the other resting over her heart. She stared up at him—not just comforted, but tethered, like she knew him somehow.
Then he leaned in and whispered something only she could hear.
That’s when the nurse glanced at his file. Her eyes widened.
“Officer… you mentioned you had a daughter… but…”
He didn’t respond.
And then things got strange.
Mendez stood up slowly, still holding the baby as if she weighed nothing at all. His gaze met the nurse’s, then drifted down to the infant in his arms. For a moment, he just stood there—caught between the role of officer and something deeper… more personal.
“What are you implying?” he asked, his voice steady, but tight.
The nurse hesitated, holding the clipboard to her chest. “It says here your daughter died… three years ago. A car crash.”
The room went still. Only the steady beep of the monitors broke the silence. All eyes were on Mendez—waiting for a reaction, for an explanation.
Instead, he smiled. Not from joy. It was soft… aching.
“I know,” he said quietly. “Not a day goes by I don’t miss her.”
The air grew heavy. A few nurses exchanged uneasy glances. Was this a strange twist of fate… or something else?
Before anyone could ask, Mendez turned to go. But as he stepped toward the door, the baby began to whimper again, squirming in his arms.
He paused.
Torn.
Then, slowly, he passed her back to the nurse—reluctantly, gently—his fingertip brushing her cheek in farewell.
“She deserves a shot,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then, without another word, he left the NICU.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d looked at him… like maybe, somehow, she remembered him too.