Where Rivers Learn to Weep

Amara's left breast was leaking again, the milk seeping through the cloth she had wrapped beneath her clothes. She pressed her grandmother's handkerchief against the wet spot, praying the smell would not give her away. The community center smelled of cleaning chemicals and sadness, but mother's milk had its own particular sweetness that cut through everything else.

The baby stirred in her arms, making those small sounds that meant he would soon cry with hunger. She had fed him in the restaurant bathroom one hour before, but he was going through what her mother called the growing times that made babies always hungry. Like his father—Khalil could eat a whole meal and still say his stomach was empty.

"Next," called the woman at the registration desk, her voice tired with the sound of someone who processed human sorrow for many hours each day.

Amara watched the couple ahead of her navigate the paperwork theater. The woman kept touching her expensive bag—leather that probably cost more than Amara had earned in her last position. Her husband checked his phone with the restless energy of someone who wished to be anywhere else, even a doctor's office.

Their adoption coordinator, a woman with gray hair and tired eyes, spoke in the soft voice used for funerals and government buildings. "The birth mother specifically requested a couple with university education. Professional backgrounds. Strong financial stability."

The baby's small fist found Amara's finger and gripped it with that reflexive strength that had broken her heart every morning for ninety-three days. She had counted. When you know the ending is coming, you count everything—soiled diapers, sleepless nights, the number of times you had kissed his forehead while whispering prayers.

"Ma'am?" The registration woman looked up, her expression changing from bored to suspicious. "You are next."

Amara's feet felt stuck to the floor. Three steps to the desk. Three steps to the papers that would make him another woman's son. Three steps to the life that would let him live past his second birthday.

The couple turned to leave, their coordinator speaking in quiet, efficient tones about home visits and background investigations. The woman's eyes met Amara's for one moment—long enough for Amara to see the desperate hope there, the same ache that had been eating at her chest. The woman looked away quickly, probably thinking Amara was another case worker or cleaning lady.

"I am sorry," Amara whispered to the registration woman. "I need more time."

She moved back to the plastic chairs along the wall, ignoring the looks from other waiting families. The baby was fully awake now, his dark eyes—Khalil's eyes—focused on her face with that intensity that made her believe he understood everything. That he knew this might be their goodbye.

In the corner, a young girl sat on the floor, coloring with broken crayons. Amara had seen her before—Zara, maybe eight years old, who came to the center with her aunt for weeks. The girl had been watching Amara's daily visits, had even offered her a piece of candy once when the baby was crying. The kind of child who noticed everything and said what everyone else was thinking.

"He is beautiful," Zara said quietly, not looking up from her coloring book. "For a white baby."

Amara felt her breath stop. "He is not—"

"I know what he is." Zara's crayon stopped moving. "My mama had to give away my brother. Before the immigration police came."

The words hit like a physical blow. Amara had been so careful, so careful, never to name the thing that was hunting them. But children saw through polite words.

"She said sometimes loving someone means letting them go where they will be safe." Zara looked up then, her eyes older than her years. "But she also said mothers always find their babies again. Even when it takes a very long time."

The baby began to fuss, that particular cry that meant he was hungry. Amara lifted him to her shoulder, feeling his weight, his warmth, the way he fit perfectly into the curve of her neck. Her body responded without thought, milk letting down, soaking through the already-wet cloth.

"Next," the registration woman called again, this time with sharpness in her voice.

Amara walked to the desk on legs that felt like water. The forms were simpler than she had expected—basic information, medical history, the legal surrender of all parental rights. She signed where indicated, her handwriting steady despite the tremor in her hands.

The baby's cry grew louder, the kind of wail that made every mother in the room look up. Amara tried to soothe him, but he was past comfort now. Hungry, tired, overwhelmed by strange voices and unfamiliar smells.

"The blanket," she said when the social worker tried to take him. "Can he keep the blanket?"

"Of course." The woman's voice was kinder now, probably trained to recognize the signs of a mother about to change her mind. "Is there anything else?"

Amara shook her head. What could she say? That she had sung to him every night? That he liked to sleep with his face turned toward the window? That when he was hungry, he would search against her shoulder before he cried? That she had already memorized the pattern of his breathing, the way his left ear was slightly larger than his right, the tiny birthmark on his ankle that looked like a crescent moon?

"The Morgans are very good people," the woman added. "They have been waiting four years for a baby."

The Morgans. Now he had a name for his new life.

Amara kissed his forehead, breathing in that newborn sweetness that would haunt her dreams. Then she placed him in the social worker's arms, watching as he was carried toward the door where his future parents waited.

The baby's cries grew stronger, that particular pitch that meant he was working himself into complete distress. Mrs. Morgan took him awkwardly, bouncing him in a way that made Amara's teeth hurt.

"Shh, sweetie," Mrs. Morgan said softly. "Mama is here now."

Mama. The word hit Amara like a slap across the face.

She was turning to leave when she heard Zara's voice behind her.

"Excuse me," the girl called to the social worker. "That lady with the baby—she looks very sad. My auntie says new mamas need help with feeding babies."

The social worker paused, looking between Zara and the Morgans, who were struggling with their screaming new son.

"Are you suggesting—" Mrs. Morgan began, then stopped as the baby's cries reached a level that made everyone in the room wince.

"I am just saying," Zara continued with the persistence of childhood, "babies need their mama's milk to be healthy. And that lady knows how to take care of him."

Mrs. Morgan looked at her husband, then at the baby, then at Amara. The calculation was visible on her face—pride versus practicality, the desire to be perfect versus the reality of a child who would not stop crying.

"Would you—I mean, we know nothing about caring for an infant," she said finally. "If you would not mind helping us for a few weeks, until we learn what to do..."

Amara's heart stopped. To hold him again. To feed him, to watch him sleep, to sing the lullabies that had carried them through the dark months of hiding.

"Just until he no longer needs nursing," Mr. Morgan added quickly. "We would pay you, of course. And provide housing."

The social worker looked uncertain. "This is not typical protocol—"

"But it is not illegal," Mrs. Morgan said. "And it would be best for the baby."

The baby chose that moment to vomit across Mrs. Morgan's expensive blouse. She held him away from her body, her face cycling through disgust, panic, and something that might have been relief when Amara stepped forward without thinking.

"May I?" Amara asked.

The moment he was in her arms, he settled, his breathing matching hers in the rhythm they had perfected over three months of hiding. She looked down at him, memorizing this moment when he was still hers, still safe, still believing that love was enough to keep the world away.

As they walked toward the Morgans' car, Zara caught up to her.

"I told you," the girl whispered. "Mothers always find their babies again."

Amara squeezed her hand. "Thank you."

"Do not thank me yet," Zara said with wisdom that broke Amara's heart. "The hard part is still coming."

Six weeks, Amara told herself. Six weeks to love him openly, to teach him everything she could, to store up enough memories to last a lifetime of separation.

Six weeks until she would have to let him go again.

But for now, in this moment, he was hers. The son she could never claim, nursing at her breast while his new parents watched with grateful, guilty eyes. The boy who would grow up safe and loved and American, carrying her lullabies in his bones and her grandmother's blanket as his only inheritance from the world that had made him.

She closed her eyes and sang to him softly, the same song she had sung every night since he was born. The same song her grandmother had sung to her, about rivers that always find their way to the sea, no matter how far they travel or how long they are separated from their source.

Mrs. Morgan leaned closer, listening. "Could you teach me that song?"

Amara opened her eyes, seeing the genuine desire to do right by this child, to honor the love that had brought him this far. Inshallah, she thought. God willing, this woman would understand what it meant to be chosen for such a sacred trust.

"Yes," she whispered. "I will teach you everything."

The baby's fist found her finger again, gripping tight. And for these six weeks, she would let herself believe that love—and the God who commands it—was enough to write a different ending to their story.

Even if she could not see it yet.