As I walk into the hospital, I say a quick prayer, asking for God’s blessing on this new little child I’ll be bringing home. The social worker walks towards me, fast-paced and red-faced. I notice the small beads of sweat forming around her hairline as she sputters out, “Ok, yeah, so, um, we’re going to get you upstairs and then we’re going to quickly get you into a room. Mom is here, and she’s very upset, and, well, we need to hide you from her.” After the alarm of the moment, my mind wanders, “She is upset? She did this to him, and she’s been off on the street since, while he’s here, alone and suffering. What right does she have to be upset?”