The Loss
baby boy in a grubby t-shirt and a sodden diaper totters down a Los Angeles sidewalk. My husband and I are out for a walk on a Saturday morning, and there isn’t another person in sight. I pick the boy up. Wrap him in my arms. The kid is maybe 18-months old, and his diaper leaks onto my sweatshirt as we ring the doorbell at the nearest house. “Probably one of theirs,” the woman who answers says, pointing to a house across the street. We knock. After several moments the door edges open, revealing…
![The Loss](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLC5-T6uHJZRKd6_i4gV-3kCrRNuT_zxktOydXYcISugjZWi3T1T0OE7LIuQqQRJwRzUs7ovLGMGKrITN0cLiu78pjYVf-K1dGcc-QNA3w19OFGLRQW5nrxywaIMPM1ZYe0pGXUi3CEWw3XD63p19bJ7fgDP7X4MMHzw3W2dSmDY520fU04f7Vdjqj3TjQ/w280-h280-p-k-no-nu/0_Th5vZ9HE3nr5dn_m.webp)