**The following story has been adapted from real life events. The names and some details have been changed for our dear friend HIPAA.

Baby boy G’s mama was on drugs. Thanks to the wonderful folks at Social Services, he was allowed to go home with her after he was born.

Scratch that. He was allowed to go with her, but not home. She was homeless. They sent him back to live with her on a friend’s couch, in the very same house where he had been born on a filthy kitchen floor.

We as a team hated seeing him go back to that environment. That adorable, mild mannered, teensy little baby went home to a crack den, despite his and his mom’s positive urine drug screens at birth. Social services gave them one caveat: mom was not allowed to be alone with the baby.

Fortunately for our consciences and for Baby boy, mom screwed up. She showed up to an appointment with him unsupervised. His pediatrician acted quickly and had him admitted to the hospital. “Possible drug withdrawal,” he said.

Once in the hospital, we took emergency protective custody. For two days, Baby boy was the peds floor mascot. His given name was not to be uttered, as the emergency protective custody arrangement afforded him an extra layer of privacy. We nicknamed him Peanut. Nurses bought him clothes and toys from the gift shop. Attendings, residents, and nurses, unable to resist the baby fever, drew straws for who would get to manage his next feeding. We became attached.

We knew that a foster family would be coming soon. We collectively decided that if they were unacceptable to the group, we would figure out a way to keep him in the hospital until another family could be found. Everyone knows foster care is terrible, someone said.

Tuesday night. An average appearing couple walk up to the nurse’s station accompanied by a social worker. It was time. Baby boy was on my shoulder, trying his best to eek out a burp to satisfy me. I looked around to see four nurses, three doctors, frozen. With bated breath we waited for them to talk first, to say something to indicate that they were…suitable.

The wife, Annie, pulls out a notebook and begins to shower the nurses with questions about Baby boy. What was his birth weight? His weight today? How much is he eating? When was his last feeding? On and on. One nurse turns to me and whispers, “she might be okay…”

Annie starts, “we’ve been hoping for a boy. We have two girls at home and always wanted a boy, but I had complications after my last pregnancy and now we can’t have any more children of our own. Our youngest daughter was very sick when she was born, but now she’s perfect. We feel that God has blessed us enormously, and we should do our best to be a blessing to children who need parents.”

Andre, her husband, jumps in. “We had 2 boys last year. We loved them and wanted to adopt them, but they went back to their family a few months ago. We’ve been praying that God would send us a boy that we can adopt into our own family.”

“We’re going to call him Andrew,” Annie says. “I’m going to call him Andrew, that is. Andre’s not sure. He likes the name Stephen. Andrew Stephen. That’s what we’ll call him. I just pray that God will give us some sign to let us know if he’s going to get to be our family for good."

By this point, the nurses are holding back tears. This family is perfect. Andre is holding Baby boy, talking to him and smiling at him as he rocks him back and forth.

"Before we go, can you tell us what name the birth mom had picked?” Annie adds.

A nurse takes the name card off his crib–not the decorated one that read “Peanut”, but the official one hiding underneath. She hands it to Annie, who, with tears, reads aloud, “Andrew Stephen."