My biological mother once left me alone (this was in the 80s) and disappeared for two weeks. The woman who eventually became my adoptive mom had been heavily involved, she was an older woman who had a reputation for helping people get stable and back on their feet. She had provided food, deposits for apartments, clothing for me, childcare, etc. Bio mom was like this, just wanted to party. Anyway, the other person in the duplex called my eventual-adoptive mom because they heard me crying constantly, and then my cries getting weaker over about 48 hours. Adoptive mom came, and busted the door down; there I was with a bottle of water alone. Bio mom did not show her face for two weeks, as I said, and all she had to say for herself was "Well Mary, I knew you'd go and get her."
Not long after that, the family court judge for the town, a friend of my adoptive mom's, suggested that she and my dad should adopt me before I ended up dead or in foster care - which in rural Ohio in the 80s was very much a safety risk as well. She asked my adoptive dad and it was a done deal, despite being in their 70s. Bio mom agreed to the adoption, and so did bio dad when they tracked him down and assured him he wouldn't have to pay child support. The adoption was finalized when I was 16 months old and I went on to graduate high school with honors at 16, attend college, and have a family of my own, all thanks to those two wonderful elderly people who absolutely saved my life. Bio mom died a couple years ago of a likely fentanyl overdose.
When I see these stories, it hits me in such a deep place, knowing that it could have easily been me if any one thing had gone differently. It's almost like survivor's guilt; I was so lucky - why can't these children be as well?