Just as I was about to toss another batch of burnt pancakes into the trash, a knock echoed at the door.
It came again, softer this time—like whoever was out there was reconsidering. I peeked out the window. The night was pitch black, lit only by a flickering lantern near the gate.
When I opened the door, I froze. Sitting on the doorstep was a wicker basket. I heard a faint whimper, and my heart sank.
Inside were two infants—one sleeping peacefully, the other staring up at me with wet eyes. A note was tucked nearby, written in a frantic, shaky hand: “Please, save them. This is all I can do.”
At thirty-five, single, and living with a lazy cat, I had always imagined children entering my life more traditionally. But here they were—two babies, just left on my doorstep.
As the crying resumed, I rushed to the fridge. One liter of milk. Thankfully, the internet helped me cobble together a homemade baby formula. By morning, the half-burnt pancakes had become bottle rests, and I sat at the table, watching them sleep.
What am I supposed to do with you? I whispered.
Sixteen years went by in what felt like an instant.
One morning at breakfast, Kira asked, “Aunt Anna, why don’t we have any baby pictures?”
I nearly spilled my coffee. Over the years, I had constructed an elaborate backstory about a fictional sister who died in a tragic car crash, even managing to cry at school meetings when needed.
“They burned in a fire,” I blurted out, hoping she wouldn’t press further. Then I quickly changed the subject: “Eat your oatmeal or we’ll be late.”
By day, I worked as an accountant. By evening, I was an English tutor. Most nights, I graded homework at the kitchen table while listening to the quiet murmur of the kids in the next room. Lately, they’d been whispering more.
“Mom—uh, Aunt Anna?” Maxim’s voice startled me from my thoughts. That word—aunt—hit harder every time they used it.
Just then, my phone rang.
Another mom wants updates about her kid’s grammar. I was grateful for the interruption and slipped away.
Dinner that evening was quiet. They retreated to their rooms, and I stayed in the kitchen, staring at crayon drawings stuck to the fridge—Kira’s stick-figure family, Maxim’s superhero in an apron that said “Best Monday Cook.”
Then I heard a noise in the attic. Heart pounding, I climbed the stairs and saw light spilling through the hatch. Inside, Maxim held up the old note from the basket.
“Mom?” Kira’s voice wavered. “Who are you to us, really?”
I sat on an old trunk, every rehearsed explanation I’d practiced over the years suddenly gone.
“Remember when Balamut ate my work papers?” I asked suddenly.
“What does that have to do with—” Maxim began, but I cut him off and started talking. About the knock, the basket, the sleepless nights. How I’d panicked, how I learned to care for two babies overnight. How I Googled everything.
“And our real parents?” Maxim asked. “You never looked?”
“I did,” I said, walking to the corner. “Here.”
I opened a box filled with ten years of clippings, letters, forum posts—my quiet, persistent search that led nowhere.
Silence. Then Kira pulled out a photo.
“What’s this?”
It was from their first birthday—me, holding them on my lap, toy cakes in front of us, all three laughing.
“Did you really think we wanted some imaginary mom who was a ballerina?” she said softly. “We already have you.”
Maxim hugged me from the other side. We sat in that dusty attic, wrapped in each other’s arms, crying like it was the final scene of a sappy drama. Even Balamut hobbled up, sensing the emotion and pushing into the group hug.
Later, back in the kitchen, I took out an old photo album.
“What’s this?” Kira asked.
“Our new family album,” I said, sliding the birthday photo into the first page.
Next, I carefully pasted the yellowed note that had started it all. Beneath it, I wrote:
“Thank you for the greatest gift of my life. And sorry about the burnt pancakes.”
