The night Max came into my life, rain pelted against the windows of the children's shelter where I worked as a counselor. At 30 years old and recently divorced, I'd given up on having children of my own. Then James, our night attendant, burst through the door carrying a soaked cardboard box. Inside the box was a small boy, drenched and shivering, with wide brown eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world. A crumpled note beside him read: "His name is Max. I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry