That was the second time I ever saw him cry.
Nothing became simple after that.
The legal side took nine months.
Nine long months.
Home studies.
Background checks.
Interviews.
Court dates.
Temporary foster arrangements while our petition was reviewed.
We were not automatically entitled to anything because Anna had said James’s name.
That mattered.
She could express trust.
Advertisement
She could not bypass the law.
The baby’s biological father formally relinquished his claim.
Social workers searched for relatives.
They located a distant cousin who declined placement.
There was a stretch in the middle when a caseworker warned us to prepare ourselves for the possibility that another family might ultimately be selected.
That hurt.
I went home and cried in the garage beside that old box of baby things we’d never donated.
We didn’t tell the boys everything at first.
We told them there was a baby who might need a family and that we were trying to help.
Our oldest asked whether she would stay forever.
“We don’t know.”
Our seven-year-old asked whether she’d be allowed in his room.
“Eventually.”
He thought about it.
Advertisement
Then cried when we said yes.
Our four-year-old asked if babies ate chicken nuggets.
He was less emotionally complicated.
Eventually, we became her foster placement.
Then, months later, adoption was approved.
She came home for good in the spring.
The day before the adoption was finalized, James and I sat at the kitchen table choosing her legal name.
She’d been Anna’s daughter from the beginning.
Her birth certificate already had a first name.
“Clara.”
