After losing my newborn son, I gave everything away to a struggling mother—by morning, dozens of strollers covered my lawn, each holding a sealed box

feet and covered her face with both hands. Her shoulders shook, but she made no sound at all. That was somehow worse than if she had wailed.

“I’m Elena,” she asked finally, lowering her hands. “And you have no idea how much this means to me.”

I looked down at the baby in his carrier.

“What’s his name?” I asked softly.

“Mateo.” She gazed lovingly at him.continue reading …