She was dropped off at the entrance of the St. Jude's Foundling Home either late at night or in the very early hours of the morning.
At night, the facility was locked down. A duty officer remained in the lobby, and nurses stayed on every floor. Early in the morning, the groundskeeper would arrive to tidy up the property. Right behind him came the kitchen staff. A small specialized milk laboratory operated on-site; it had taken years of lobbying to open it, proving that infant formulas were better prepared right there at the home.
That morning, the groundskeeper was the first to notice the bundle on the doorstep. He approached. He heard a faint grunting sound. He realized immediately: it sounded like a baby. Frightened, he began pounding on the door. Within a minute, the doctor on call was examining a tiny baby girl—the one inside the bundle. It was she who had been making those little grunting noises. They unwrapped the quilted blanket and saw a pacifier covering half the infant's face, then eyes that opened and seemed to be searching for something.
It was a girl, no more than six to eight weeks old. She appeared healthy. They examined her, weighed her, and measured her height. Everything was normal. Even her umbilical cord had been properly cared for and was healing. While the girl was being examined, they called the police. Two young officers arrived. It was likely the first case of its kind in their careers—they had never processed a foundling before. They peered at the tiny thing from one side and then the other while she greedily swallowed the formula brought by a nurse. Then, it was time to give the little one a name. They liked "Alice." So, they wrote it down. For a last name, they chose "Stephens"—since the little girl had been found on the front steps. Only her approximate date of birth was known. And so, the girl received a name and a new legal identity.
The police began searching for the mother, while the staff at the home focused on Alice. She was taken to see specialists; the home required a comprehensive medical file. While none of the doctors found any major issues, the ophthalmologist noted: heterochromia. Or, as people commonly call them, "cat eyes." In practice, this meant the iris of her left eye was a different color than the right. The difference wasn't immediately striking. It might not have been noticed at birth, especially since Alice turned out to be a sleepyhead—she slept a lot. But the eye doctor caught it and made the diagnosis.
Strictly speaking, heterochromia isn't considered a disease; it generally doesn't affect vision. Most often, it is hereditary, sometimes skipping a generation. It all comes down to the pigment melanin: there can be an excess of it or, conversely, a deficiency. The police continued their search for the biological mother. They checked every maternity ward in the city and the surrounding suburbs. They looked for women who had given birth to girls two months prior, using the date Alice arrived as a benchmark. It was fruitless. Canvassing neighborhoods to see if anyone had noticed a pregnant woman who should have given birth by now yielded nothing. They called all the midwives who officially performed home births. Still nothing. They checked transit hubs for panhandlers using infants to garner sympathy. They didn't find the girl's mother. They sent out alerts to neighboring states.
Meanwhile, two hundred miles away, a young woman was beside herself. She simply could not believe that this had happened to her, to her daughter...
***
In the heart of the city, in a large three-bedroom apartment, lived a father and son. They lived alone; when Mark was ten, his mother had passed away from cancer in just six months. Credit had to be given to his father: he devoted himself entirely to his son and raised him to be a man he could be proud of.
Mark was a good student, played sports, and like his father, was into mechanics. Their home was always tidy, and frozen dinners were a rarity. Once a month, father and son would sit down and make a hundred homemade pierogies, just like his mother used to. They preserved the order of the house exactly as it had been when she was alive. Although they rarely spoke of her, the memory was always there.
By his senior year, Mark was one of the first to know where he was going to study—he chose the State Polytechnic University. He got in on a full scholarship. Though his father had told him from the start he would pay for tuition if necessary, they both hoped—rightfully so—that Mark would pass the exams. Seeing his name on the admission list, Mark immediately called his father.
"I'm proud of you, son," his father said. "Your mother would have been so happy."
Mark came home for a week. He and his father packed his essentials, carefully boxing them up. They spent every evening together; it was the first time they would be apart for so long. That was when Mark gathered the courage to ask:
"Dad, are you going to stay alone forever?"
"I don't know, son," he replied sadly.
"I'd be happy if there was a woman by your side. Someone worthy of you," Mark said.
"We'll see. I haven't found anyone yet. Honestly, I haven't been looking."
Mark truly wanted his father to have a family. He wasn't old yet. How could he just stay by himself? Maybe once Mark left, his father would decide to start a new life.
***
When Mark came home for break after his freshman year, it turned out his father had indeed made a move: he said he wanted to introduce Mark to a woman. He didn't say much else, but it was clear to Mark that the relationship was serious. Mark felt a strange mix of emotions: he was happy for his father, but at the same time, he couldn't imagine anyone replacing his mother. But after meeting Ellen, a young, pleasant woman, Mark felt at ease. She treated his father very well, and he reciprocated. In short, after the break, Mark left with a light heart: his father wasn't alone anymore. Then, saying goodbye on the train platform, his father mentioned they were planning to get married and that Ellen would move in with them.
"I'm happy for you both," Mark said to them. "I'm just sorry I won't be able to make it to the wedding."
"And when is your wedding?" his father ventured to ask. "Do you even have a girlfriend?"
"I have a fiancée. She just doesn't know she's my fiancée yet," Mark joked. "But your example has encouraged me. As soon as I get back, I'm going to ask her." Mark was talking about Natalie, a girl in his class.
If his father had asked him to describe her, Mark probably wouldn't have found the right words. He had first seen her in a lecture hall, the sun reflecting off her red hair. Then he looked into her eyes, and that was it. He had never seen eyes like Natalie's.
Mark didn't have much experience with girls. There had been friends from high school and the neighborhood, and now classmates and neighbors in the dorms. But he had never felt his heart stop the way it did when he saw Natalie. It took him a long time to work up the nerve to ask her to a coffee shop. He was surprised when she said yes.
Natalie later confessed she never thought Mark would notice her. They became "the couple" of their department. No one doubted that Natalie and Mark would be together even after graduation.
Mark asked his father to check if the plant where he worked needed engineers of his specialty. He also asked if there was a spot for Natalie, with whom he intended to return home. His father was well-respected at the firm, and they said they were ready to take on two young specialists with degrees from the country's top university. A day after graduation, Mark and Natalie arrived. A celebratory dinner was waiting for them. During dinner, they announced they were going to the courthouse to get a marriage license. If no one objected, they wanted to live in the apartment until they could buy their own place.
"Son," his father said, "why are you even asking? This is your home too. Which means it's Natalie's. Stay here! There's plenty of room for everyone."
There was indeed plenty of space. Three separate bedrooms, a large kitchen, and a balcony. It was a solid, old-fashioned apartment in a historic building—Mark's childhood home. And so, the four of them began living together. They only gathered as a group for dinner and on weekends. The most problematic areas—the kitchen and the bathroom—caused no issues. The men left for work early; they were gone by seven. Natalie left by eight. Ellen left last—her first lesson at the music school didn't start until nine. So, the shower and breakfast were accessible to everyone. It seemed like a small thing, but for many, it's a source of irritation and conflict. Not in this family. On weekends, the family never got bored. After finishing chores and grocery shopping, they often went to the movies or the theater, walked along the waterfront, and enjoyed sitting in cafes. It was all filled with conversation.
When a family has common interests, they don't even need guests to have a good time. Natalie, who had been raised by her grandmother, couldn't be happier with how things were turning out. The only thing that bothered her was that she occasionally caught a look from Ellen that was either wary or scrutinizing. But she brushed it off. Otherwise, Ellen was friendly and always offered help. Natalie told herself not to overthink it.
One evening, Mark came home in high spirits.
"Natalie," he said, "I got a huge bonus. Let's get our 'nest egg' and see how much we've saved for the house."
The "nest egg" was a decorative ceramic jar they had bought on a trip. It wasn't good for much else, but it worked perfectly for hiding cash. They counted everything. It was a significant amount.
"Natalie, maybe one more year and we can buy the house. Maybe then Dad and Ellen will risk expanding the family? Well, you and I definitely will. I want so much to hear the pitter-patter of little feet! I don't care if it's a boy or a girl," Mark said.
Natalie wanted a baby too. But it had been her idea to get the house first, then children. However, life had other plans: a couple of days later, Natalie found out she was pregnant. She told Mark. He scooped her up and spun her around the room.
"The house can wait, right, Natalie? We'll wait for it together with the little one." The next day, Natalie went to the clinic. She had her tests done and was officially registered. That evening at dinner, they shared the news. Mark's father was overjoyed; he had been waiting for a grandchild for a long time. But he didn't pry. Ellen, however, had a very intense reaction, repeating several times:
"So, I'm going to be Grandma Ellen!"
Once again, Natalie doubted her sincerity. But once again, she scolded herself: "The woman is happy! Why are you being so critical?"
Natalie's pregnancy went smoothly. She went on maternity leave right on schedule. She learned to knit. Everyone praised the first little bonnet she made for the baby. Natalie loved it herself. No matter how many ultrasounds she had, the baby stayed in a "covert" position, hiding its gender. So, Natalie chose white and green yarn so it would suit either a girl or a boy.
***
The time came to go to the hospital. Since noon, Natalie hadn't been feeling well, and by the time Mark got home from work, the contractions were impossible to hide. Mark helped Natalie dress, his father-in-law grabbed the pre-packed bag, and they called a taxi. The hospital staff wasn't surprised they didn't come by ambulance; the doctor on call checked her, and Natalie was wheeled straight to the delivery room.
Everything went quickly. Natalie was praised for following instructions and not panicking. She was only shy about screaming. But it turns out, that's actually necessary. Once she heard that screaming helps the baby, Natalie started screaming. Mark almost burst into the delivery room at the sound. A seasoned orderly stopped him.
"Where do you think you're going? Stay right here! Wait!"
"But Natalie's screaming!" Mark pleaded, completely forgetting every movie he'd ever seen where women did exactly that.
"What, you want her to sing a lullaby? She'll scream a bit, and then the baby will scream. Wait!"
He didn't have to wait long—soon Mark heard a brand-new voice crying out. He knew: his child was born! A midwife came out and congratulated him on the birth of a daughter. She said everything went well and the girl was healthy. Mark ran outside. His father was waiting there.
"You're a grandfather! You have a granddaughter!" he hugged his father.
Mark picked up Natalie and the baby from the hospital, handing flowers to everyone who came out to see them off. For Natalie, he brought a bouquet of roses so large she could barely hold it with both hands. Mark took the baby himself, holding her close, a smile never leaving his face all the way home. At home, they were greeted by a sparkling clean apartment, a crib with a canopy, a changing table, and a high-end stroller shining with chrome.
Natalie couldn't hold back tears as she thanked her family. The brand-new grandfather had already announced the evening's program: he knew the granddaughter needed to be bathed first—and the baby bath was ready—then fed, and then a family dinner. Everyone helped bathe the baby. To be precise, Natalie did the bathing while the others stood by, whispering advice. The baby seemed to like it, though. She only started to protest when they took her out.
The baby fell asleep. They sat in the kitchen deciding two things: what to name the little human, and whether Natalie would mind if Mark and his father left for a business trip abroad in a week.
"Natalie, I can turn it down," Mark said.
"Yes," his father confirmed. "But it's an important assignment. They need a top specialist. And it turns out," he smiled, "our Mark is that specialist. Plus, there's a guaranteed bonus."
Natalie convinced her husband to go. She wouldn't be alone; she had Ellen. Ellen nodded vigorously. They settled on a name: they called the girl Olivia. Three days later, they registered her.
A week later, the men flew out. They called home every evening—the first question was always about Olivia. Then they'd talk about their work and ask if the women were managing without them. At first, everything was fine. Natalie was handling it. Ellen helped her—they bathed Olivia together. Then Ellen started staying late at work. She explained she was preparing for a concert and a colleague was sick.
Then Ellen stopped having dinner with them. She said she'd had a late lunch. She would take a cup of coffee to her room and lock the door. One day, Natalie caught an unkind look from Ellen. In the evenings, Natalie would bring the ironing board into the living room to press Olivia's clothes. The baby was in the stroller nearby. Ellen walked in for some reason and, walking around the stroller, curled her lip in distaste. Natalie had always been sensitive to how people felt about her. Now she felt that not just she, but Olivia too, was irritating Ellen. She adjusted by doing the ironing during the day.
Now she bathed the baby alone and walked her alone, even on weekends. Ellen would leave early on weekends and come home late, rarely explaining where she'd been. Natalie began to count the days until her husband's return. But over the phone, she never even hinted that anything was wrong.
***
That Friday, Natalie took Olivia to the pediatrician for a routine checkup. The doctor had nothing but praise for them. Trouble waited for Natalie as she was lowering the stroller off the curb. She caught her heel on the edge and broke it. She had to walk home limping. She was exhausted and upset—she'd have to find a shoe repair shop. Where was one? She hadn't seen any nearby. After bathing and feeding Olivia, she began softly singing a lullaby and felt herself drifting off. She fell asleep. She didn't hear Ellen come home.
She woke up at dawn—surprised that Olivia hadn't cried once during the night. She went to the crib and froze: Olivia wasn't there. Natalie screamed. Ellen jumped up. They searched together. The door was locked. There was no way to imagine where the baby had gone. Natalie called the police. A patrol arrived very quickly. They checked everything: the front door, the windows, the balcony. They questioned the neighbors. No one had heard a thing. They took the report and said they'd keep her informed. Natalie didn't know what to do.
Ellen called her husband. He, naturally, told Mark. It's unclear how they managed to cut the trip short, but they arrived the next day. Mark didn't recognize Natalie: she was haggard, her face drawn, and her beautiful eyes of different colors—the eyes Mark loved so much—had gone dull. Her brown eye looked faded, and the dark gray one had turned black. Natalie cried constantly, silently and desperately. She clutched Olivia's teddy bear and wouldn't let it go. Mark took personal leave and spent all his time at the police station. He learned the door hadn't been picked; it was opened with keys. Or, at the very least, a duplicate. The kidnappers knew the layout of the rooms and the furniture—they took the girl quietly. And carefully: she hadn't even cried. Then, they had likely left in a car, but no one had seen it.
Every police precinct in the city was alerted. The search expanded—delay in such cases can lead to tragedy. The phone was tapped, but no one called for ransom during the first twenty-four hours. In the experience of the police, that was a bad sign. This hell lasted for three months. Natalie, barely understanding the suggestions from her colleagues who had also joined the search, nodded "yes" to a plan they proposed: posting the whole story on social media. Perhaps someone knew something. Maybe someone had made a duplicate set of keys about three months ago, or seen an infant on a train or bus. And it worked.
A locksmith responded—not one from a major service, but a freelancer who made spare keys or changed locks on the side. He came forward because of his wife. He had come home from work and heard his wife telling a friend about the kidnapping story she'd read. His wife was in tears, saying that if someone stole her little Joey, she'd tear them apart. It hit the locksmith like a lightning bolt: about three months ago, a man had come to him saying he needed a duplicate set of keys urgently. He gave the locksmith thirty minutes and said he'd pay extra. The keys were moderately difficult, but he barely finished in time. The man paid and left. But the locksmith remembered him. He acted faster than he ever had—he went to the local precinct and told them about the rush job. Later, he gave a formal statement. Most importantly, the customer had a distinguishing feature: he was missing a few fingertips on his right hand. He was also left-handed, using his left hand for both his wallet and the cash. This was the first suspect.
They searched for him and found him. Under interrogation, he named the client. Or rather, the person who hired him. Even the lead investigator was shocked: the client was Ellen. They brought her in for questioning, calling her at the music school. Ellen was a tough nut to crack. Only when faced with the suspect in person did she admit that she was behind Olivia's disappearance. Her motive was unoriginal: money.
It turned out Ellen had lived for years with a young man she loved deeply. He was a gambler. He didn't work. Simply put, he lived off her. She worked, but what is a music teacher's salary? Her "husband's" appetites grew. He suggested she find a wealthy man with an apartment who could sponsor their lifestyle. After much thought, Ellen agreed—she couldn't bring herself to leave the man.
Chance helped: at a company gala, the best students of the music school performed. Ellen was with them. At that concert, she met a handsome, youthful-looking man. She didn't rush things; the relationship developed slowly. The turning point was the city-center apartment the man owned. On the real estate market, it was worth a fortune. But first, they had to make it legal. Ellen agreed to marry him. He registered her at the apartment. Within six months, they could start a divorce and split the assets.
A shady lawyer, an expert in unfair property division, was ready to help. Moreover, there was a nice summer house and a boat. But then Mark and Natalie dropped into Ellen's lap. She had to pause. Then the granddaughter appeared, along with the substantial savings of both the young couple and her husband.
That was when the final plan was hatched: kidnap the child. At night. While the men were away. Ellen gave her keys to a man her "husband" had introduced her to. The rest was logistics: take her at dawn when sleep is deepest and there are no witnesses. Take her to a neighboring city. Drop her off at a foundling home. And keep watch to make sure the girl wasn't adopted in the next three months. Then, kidnap her again from the home and demand a ransom.
Ellen knew identifying the baby's parents would be easy: the little one, like her mother, had heterochromia. And DNA is always an option. That was when they would play the final act: the ransom. Her boyfriend was running the show on how to do it safely. Meanwhile, Ellen could barely contain her anticipation whenever she returned to the apartment where everyone was grieving for Olivia.
During the trial, the defense attorney argued that Ellen had acted humanely because the girl hadn't been harmed. When he said it a second time, the courtroom erupted, and the judge didn't immediately call for order; he shared the crowd's outrage.
The sentences were fitting. Ellen, her mastermind boyfriend, the kidnapper, and the taxi driver who agreed to "forget" where and with whom he had traveled, all received prison time. Different lengths, but all of them were behind bars.
By silent agreement, neither Natalie, nor Mark, nor his father ever speak the name Ellen in that house. Instead, every day, you can hear them calling:
"Olivia!"
"Alice!"
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