Each Sunday, Santana sneaks out of the house before her parents wake up. She takes her huge purse, and nothing else. If they bother to look at her schedule, they'll see each Sunday marked only with a small black X. Something that means nothing to them, but everything to her.

Her first stop is Starbucks, which is on her way. She prefers to stop here rather than at the Lima Bean, because no one knows her here. This is where she changes clothes and buys her grande Cinnamon Dolce Latte. Then, she's ready. It's onto Lima Memorial, where she works as a candy striper. It's strangely rewarding but not for the reasons she lets people believe. It's not the sexy uniform or the stares it earns her from some of the patients.

Santana's favorite part is going to the nursery, to hold the new babies - especially the ones who are lonely. She never would have thought babies could get lonely, but apparently, there are only so many nurses and an expanding number of babies. The baby Santana loves to hold more than any of the others doesn't have a name. She was dropped off here as part of the Safe Haven Law, which states that if a parent can't or won't take care of a baby, they can drop that baby off at any hospital or church and they'll take it in with no questions asked.

If anyone at McKinley knew this was how Santana spent her weekends - volunteering and holding abandoned babies - her reputation would be gone. But, in Santana's defense, babies are too small to piss her off. All they do is lie there and look cute. And remind Santana over and over not to get pregnant until she is absolutely ready. When she's volunteering, her only responsibility is holding them. She hands them off when they need to be changed or have to nap or when they have any kind of health crisis.

Since this baby has no name, Santana calls her mija, Spanish for baby girl. She sings the baby Spanish lullabies, even though the baby isn't Latina. It was the only song that soothed her as a child. The one her mother sang to her. She sings, "Hush, my pretty baby," and doesn't see the differences anymore. She doesn't notice the cleft lip, and the missing limbs. To Santana, the baby is perfect. She comes back week after week - sometimes more than that - to give this kid some kind of predictability. It gets to that the baby smiles when she sees Santana. It gets to where the baby prefers Santana.

It's strange. Santana has never been preferred by anyone. Her parents, of course, but they have to love her. She keeps everyone else at arm's length, with a healthy supply of insults and sharp one-liners. If she keeps them back, she's less likely to be hurt.

But what harm can a baby do?

"You're perfect, okay? Just the way you are," she promises. "And Santana loves you. Remember that." Then, she kisses the baby's forehead, imagining her with a name, a home, a family.

It could happen.

Santana ought to know.

It happened for her.

The End.