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“Sir, I found your son beside the dumpster outside your mansion,” a soaking wet little girl said as she handed over a crying baby wrapped in a black trash bag. The billionaire, declared sterile twelve years earlier, didn’t panic. He stared into the child’s eyes and asked, “Who sent you here to play this sick game?” The little girl pointed a trembling finger at the top of the grand staircase, whispering, “The lady who told us to throw him away.”

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court judge had gently asked her if she wanted to live with a foster family trained in childhood trauma. Charlee had looked the judge dead in the eye and pointed at me.

“My uncle Spencer is the only adult I know who actually stays around to fix the things that are broken,” she had said.

Epilogue: Roots and Branches

A year to the day after Charlee first continue reading …

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