For years, my wife, Claire, and I attempted to conceive. She proposed adoption when that didn’t work. It felt natural. We finally met Sophie, a 4-year-old with a sparkling eye who had been in foster care since birth, after months of waiting. She held on to us from the beginning, referring to us as Mommy and Daddy before it was formally recognized.
When I came in from work a month after bringing her home, Sophie threw herself at me and put her tiny arms around my legs. Her voice faltered.
“I don’t want to go.”
I knelt down in confusion. “Where are you going, my love?”
Tears filled her eyes as her lips quivered. “I don’t want to disappear once more. I would like to remain with you and Mommy.
I felt a chilly shiver. I stroked her hair and reassured her that it wouldn’t happen. However, Claire entered the hallway with a pale face and an unreadable look.
“We must speak.”
Assuring Sophie that everything would be alright, I sent her to her room. She sniffled and nodded before leaving, but I could feel her tiny heart pounding against mine.
Claire turned to face me, her mouth clenched, as soon as her door closed.
“She must be returned to us.”
Certain that I had misheard, I blinked. “What?”
I stepped back as she explained her motivation.
Claire slumped down on the couch as she entered the living room. She was trying to remain calm, but her shoulders were shaking. As I waited for an answer, I knelt down next her and laid a kind touch on her shoulder. She inhaled nervously.
She started, her voice trembling, “I thought I could handle everything.” But it’s more difficult than I thought. Sophie is not what I had anticipated. She swallowed hard, as if she didn’t want to say the words aloud. “I feel like I make mistakes all the time. I have no idea how to be the mother she requires.
My head was spinning as I gazed at her. “You would prefer to return her to a life of foster care and uncertainty?” I was surprised at how piercing my voice sounded. I was shocked and, to be honest, upset.
“I am… She used the back of her palm to wipe her eyes and said, “I’m scared.” “Although it may sound callous, I can’t continue to act as though nothing is wrong when I feel so totally inadequate.” I had never seen her stare at me with such desperation. “Even though I love her, this fear cannot be overcome by my love alone.”
I inhaled, attempting to relax. I whispered, “Adoption was your idea, Claire.” “You were ecstatic. It was you who encouraged me to look into all the agencies and complete the necessary papers. What was altered?
She averted her gaze as tears filled her eyes. My mother called me repeatedly and told me terrifying tales about misbehaving older kids. You are aware of her tendency to sow doubtful seeds. After that, Sophie lost it at the grocery store last week. Even though it was only a typical rage, it caused me to doubt everything. According to my mother, we may have “rushed into it.” that the adjustment of adopting a four-year-old is too great. She believes that we ought to have attempted to conceive a child or perhaps even sought fertility treatments again.
Something clenched in my chest as I listened. I was aware of Claire’s own fears. Perhaps the worst aspects of her self-doubt were being nourished by her mother’s poisonous comments. However, it made my stomach turn when I heard her discuss giving up Sophie.
I lowered my head and pressed my palms together. “Listen to me, Claire. We’re called Mommy and Daddy by Sophie. Her parents have never been there to support, shield, and adore her without conditions. And you wish to deprive her of that?
She started crying and sobbed into her hands. She muttered, “I’m at a loss for what else to do.” “I think I’m letting her down.”
A slight knock on the hallway wall startled us both. Sophie stood there, still in her jammies, holding a plush bunny. Fear gleamed in her eyes. Some of our chat must have reached her ears.
With a trembling voice, she apologized for her poor performance at the store. “I swear that I will no longer be bad.”
In that moment, my heart broke. I hurried over, embraced her, and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Sweetheart, you have nothing to apologize for.”
She looked at Claire over my shoulder. “Do you still love me, Mommy?”
With tears running down her cheeks, Claire covered her mouth. With a nod, she extended her arm and embraced Sophie. I briefly believed that was all—that all doubt would be dispelled by the warmth of Sophie’s arms around her. Claire let out a trembling sigh, however, as Sophie released her grip and walked back to her bedroom.
I begged, “Let’s speak with a counselor or something.” “This cannot be the answer.”
She nodded, but there was still a glimmer of doubt in her eyes.
I contacted an adoption support group the following day. A family therapist with expertise in post-adoption counseling was suggested by them. Claire and I scheduled our first session during that week. There was a lot of tension in the house. Sophie withdrew into herself, sensing something was wrong. She ceased to clutch and smiled at us warily. She no longer ran into our room to insist on a corny bedtime story; instead, she waited at her door, almost afraid that we might ask her to gather her belongings. Seeing her spirit wane broke my heart.
Claire was hesitant to divulge too much when we finally met with the family therapist, Dr. Benjamin, but ultimately the narrative came flooding out. She acknowledged that she was feeling overburdened and that she was not able to connect with Sophie as she had hoped. There was also concern that Sophie would harbor trauma that we weren’t equipped to deal with. In addition to offering gentle suggestions for restoring trust between Claire and me, the therapist listened to Sophie with empathy.
Additionally, he handed Claire a journal and encouraged her to write down everything of her thoughts, including her worries, guilt, and little pleasures. He recommended that we engage in what he referred to as “connection rituals,” such as doing something Sophie enjoyed for fifteen minutes every day. We would all color if Sophie wanted to. Claire and I would lay out dough next to her if she wanted to bake cookies. Little, commonplace things that could improve our relationship.
Claire initially treated it like homework. She was hesitant, as though she anticipated failure. However, she became softer the more we performed these activities. Sophie requested if we might dance in the living room one evening. Claire spun her about while she giggled, and for a few minutes I could see the two of them radiate sincere joy. I hadn’t seen Claire’s eyes light up like that in weeks.
Her mother continued to call, though. When I answered the phone one day, her mother was critiquing the whole thing. She grumbled, “You ought to have tried IVF or surrogacy once more.” “You are now forced to raise a child who isn’t even biologically yours.” Anger erupted throughout me. I remained silent and gently informed her that we were taking things our own way. I made the decision to keep that phone call from Claire. There was enough pressure on her already.
Our treatment sessions gradually started to help over the course of the following few weeks. Claire found that her fear of being inadequate was the root cause of her worry. She feared Sophie was entitled to more than she could provide. Sophie, meanwhile, thrived on any attention she received. She proudly showed me the stickers she received in preschool for wiping down her crayons as she began to tell me about her day in detail.
Sophie’s favorite dish is homemade pizza, which we were preparing one evening when Claire unintentionally spilled tomato sauce. Shocked that Sophie’s shirt was covered with sauce, she gasped and sprang back. Sophie merely chuckled. With uncontrollable laughter, she grabbed a spoon, dipped it in additional sauce, and dabbed a little on Claire’s arm. Claire initially froze. Then she smiled just a little bit. She swept Sophie away from the splashed mess a moment later and gathered her in a playful embrace. The sound of Sophie’s laughter filled the kitchen. Spilled sauce was such a trivial matter, but it resolved the tension that had been growing since the beginning. I almost burst into tears of relief.
Claire held on to me in the hallway that night after we put Sophie to bed. I’m sorry,” she said in a whisper. I nearly lost hope in her. as well as on us.
I embraced her. “You felt afraid. However, we are all in this together.
She nodded, her eyes full of tears. “I don’t want to part with her. I’d like to be her mother.
We spent an additional month in therapy. The mood in our house gradually changed. Sophie calmed down, confident that we wouldn’t desert her. Claire began organizing small family excursions, such as Sunday afternoons at the ice cream shop or excursions to the playground. She even offered to assist with clothes and enrolled Sophie in a toddler dance class.
Claire’s mother unexpectedly dropped by one day. Despite my expectations of tension, she walked directly to Sophie and gave her a tiny plush animal. Unsure of how to respond, Sophie briefly held onto my leg. Claire’s mother squatted, grinned, and said, “I’m I apologize for being absent, honey. Her tone faltered. “May I have a hug?” Sophie gave me a doubtful glance before approaching and embracing her grandmother. In that instant, I understood that even in difficult circumstances, acceptance can flourish.
We visited the adoption agency a week later to complete some paperwork. The staff smiled at Sophie’s joyful appearance and called her by name. Having witnessed numerous family transitions, our caseworker remarked she had rarely seen a youngster so thrilled to have a forever home. I turned to Claire and felt a wave of relief. My heart leaped when she gave me a slight nod.
One month later, I stood in our living room and watched Sophie run laps around the couch, and for the first time, I thought our family would be alright. I could no longer remember the grocery store outburst. Claire, too? She was not flawless—no parent ever is—but she was making every effort, and that was what really counted.
I asked Sophie if she realized how much we loved her as we tucked her in that evening. “I love you so much, Mommy and Daddy,” she added, nodding with a toothy smile. She gave our hands a firm squeeze. Claire put her head on my shoulder and fell asleep. She muttered, “We’re going to make this work,” and her voice had the assurance I had been hoping to hear.
In actuality, love doesn’t just happen. Love is a messy thing. It falters through shaky phone calls to a therapist, tomato sauce spills on the kitchen floor, and restless nights when you question whether you’re acting appropriately. But each time you get back up and decide to stay, it gets bigger. Even if adoption isn’t always easy, Sophie’s radiant grin serves as a reminder that some journeys are worthwhile despite any difficulties.
If I’ve learnt anything, it’s that love and dedication, not biology or practicality, are what create a family. Fear nearly caused Claire and I to make a mistake, but we managed to return to hope. Sometimes all you have to do is hold on to the little moments of happiness until they grow into a life you never thought was possible.
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