My husband and I spent eight years trying to have a child.
Eight years of tests, appointments, hormones, hope, and disappointment. By the end of it, I was tired in a way that had settled into my bones. I stopped buying baby clothes I used to hide in the back of drawers. I stopped letting myself picture a little face at our table. It hurt less when I stopped imagining.
That was how we started the foster-to-adopt process.
Then one night, after another failed round and another dinner eaten in near silence, my husband Ben looked at me and said, “What if our child is already out there waiting for us?”
That was how we started the foster-to-adopt process.
By the time we visited the children’s home, we had already done the classes, the home study, the interviews, the background checks. The visit was supposed to be one step in a long process.
Instead, it changed my life.
Then I saw one girl sitting by the window.
Ben and I brought toys and treats for all the kids. The younger ones rushed us right away. They wanted the stuffed animals, the candy, the attention. Ben was laughing. I was trying not to cry.
Then I saw one girl sitting by the window.
She was older than the others. Ten years old. Quiet. Alert. Hands folded neatly in her lap.
I walked over and crouched beside her. “Hey, sweetheart. Don’t you want to pick something?”
She glanced at the other kids and said, “I’m older. I’d rather the little ones get them. They need them more. There’s already so little here.”
That was it.
Six weeks later, she came to us as a foster-to-adopt placement.
I looked at Ben. He looked back at me. Neither of us said a word, but I knew.
Her name was Lily.
Six weeks later, she came to us as a foster-to-adopt placement.
I loved her fast. Faster than I expected. Maybe because she was so careful with everything. She folded her clothes into neat little stacks. She thanked me for every meal. She hesitated before taking seconds.
The first time I told her, “You don’t have to ask for more food in your own house,” she stared at me like I had spoken another language.
Then she said softly, “Oh.”
Dinner was going well.
A month after she moved in, Ben and I hosted a family dinner so everyone could meet her.
She was nervous. I could tell by the way she kept smoothing her skirt.
“You don’t have to impress anybody,” I told her.
She looked up at me. “What if they don’t like me?”
I touched her cheek. “Then they can answer to me.”
That made her smile.
I led him into the living room.
Dinner was going well. My cousins loved her. My aunt kept offering her extra rolls. My cousin’s teenage daughter, Ava, had already promised to show Lily the upstairs game room if she got overwhelmed.
Then my father arrived late.
He came in apologizing. “Traffic was awful.”
I smiled and said, “Come meet Lily.”
I led him into the living room.
My father looked at her face.
Lily stood up politely. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
My father looked at her face.
Then at her wrist.
The glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
Everyone jumped.
“Dad?” I said. “Are you okay?”
He looked terrified. Not angry. Not confused. Terrified.
