We adopted a seven-year-old girl who needed a home as much as I needed to be a mother. I thought bringing her into our lives would heal us. I never expected that the first time she saw my husband, she would scream like she’d seen a monster.
The reason she was so terrified is something I’ll never forget.
My name is Nancy, and I can’t have children. When I was 23, a doctor sat across from me and gently said the words “congenital infertility.”
I’d dreamed of being a mother my entire life.
As a little girl, I used to wrap my dolls in blankets and rock them to sleep. I’d whisper stories to them.
Promise them I’d always keep them safe.
When the doctor said I’d never carry a child, my heart broke. But not long ago, hope filled my life.
My boyfriend, Stephen, and I got married. We bought a big house with too many empty rooms.
As a wedding gift, he turned one of those rooms into a nursery.
He painted the walls bright yellow, laid down soft carpeting, and filled the shelves with books and tiny stuffed animals.
I stood in the doorway and cried.
“We can still be parents,” he said softly.
“We adopt. We give a child a home. A family.
Love. Everything.”
I fell into his arms and sobbed. But not from grief this time.
Stephen is a trauma surgeon. Three weeks after we decided to adopt, he got a call.
It was a month-long humanitarian medical mission overseas, responding to a region still reeling from a natural disaster. He had to leave.
“I don’t want to go,” he said.
“But…”
“You have to. People need you.”
“The adoption…”
“I’ll handle it. I promise.”
He signed all the pre-approval documents through our private adoption agency and authorized me to begin the process.
The night before he left, he held me close.
“If you feel it, you’ll know. Trust your heart.”
“I will.”
***
I visited the orphanage two days after Stephen left. The social worker walked me through the common room.
Children filled the room, some laughing loudly, others playing in small groups, and a few sitting quietly in corners.
I met several sweet kids with bright smiles.
Then I saw her.
A little girl sitting alone by the window, coloring carefully in a book.
She was talking to herself softly, telling a story to her crayons.
I knelt beside her. “Hi. What are you coloring?”
She looked up, her dark eyes peeking through messy braids, a small gap-toothed smile spreading across her face as if she’d been waiting for someone to notice her.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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