On Halloween night, I expected nothing more than handing out candy to trick-or-treaters and watching the neighborhood kids play pranks. But when I glanced out the window, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks—a baby, alone in a car seat, by one of the graves in the cemetery across the street. Heart racing, I rushed outside.

Halloween used to be my favorite time of year. I remember running around the neighborhood in costume, my bag overflowing with candy. Just two years ago, I’d walked my daughter door-to-door, holding her hand as we knocked on neighbors’ doors. But those days were over. I had lost her, and in many ways, I’d lost my husband, John, too. Our marriage hadn’t survived the weight of our grief.

I grabbed my coat and stepped out into the cold, my mind swirling with a mix of panic and confusion. As I approached the grave, the wind seemed to howl louder, as if urging me forward. My heart nearly stopped when I saw the baby—so small, sleeping peacefully, bundled in the car seat.

I picked her up, cradling her against me. There was no one around, no note of explanation, just this little girl left alone in the dark. After carrying her inside, I noticed a small note attached to the car seat. “Amanda, one and a half years old,” it read. That was it. No phone number, no explanation—nothing.

Unsure of what to do, I called the police, but they had no reports of a missing child. Still, they instructed me to bring her in. At the station, the thought of handing Amanda over to social services left me unsettled. She felt like she belonged with me.

“Can she stay with me?” I found myself asking. After a lot of waiting and background checks, they finally agreed. Amanda was coming home with me.

Caring for her brought back memories of my daughter. Waking up in the middle of the night, preparing bottles, soothing her when she cried—every moment, no matter how challenging, felt like a gift. The more time I spent with Amanda, the more I grew attached to her. She filled the empty spaces in my life, and slowly, she started healing my broken heart.

Weeks passed, and then came a knock at my door. A police officer stood with an elderly woman—Amanda’s grandmother, Carol. She had come to take Amanda back. My heart sank, but I knew I couldn’t refuse. I handed Amanda over, even though it felt like losing a part of myself again.

But something didn’t sit right with me. Carol’s handwriting on the thank-you note she left behind matched the note that had been in Amanda’s car seat. She was the one who had abandoned Amanda that night.

With John’s help, we fought to keep Amanda. After a tense courtroom battle, we won. Carol’s custody was revoked, and I was granted the right to adopt Amanda.

That Halloween changed my life forever. Amanda came into my life, and along the way, John and I found each other again. It was more than just a holiday—it was a new beginning.