Dating became a minefield after that. Some men said they understood. They’d hold my hand and promise it didn’t matter. But weeks or months later, when reality sank in, I’d see it in their eyes. Pity first. Then disappointment. Then distance.
One by one, they all left.
So I stopped waiting to be chosen and learned to choose myself instead.
I bought a small house at the edge of town, with two bedrooms, a front porch with a swing, and way too much space for one person. I filled it with books, plants, and all the things people collect when they’re trying not to feel lonely.
But no matter how much I redecorated, the silence always crept back in.
Some nights, I’d sit by the window and imagine what it would sound like to hear little footsteps running down the hall. I didn’t dream about perfection anymore. I just wanted laughter, someone to care for, and someone to love.
The idea of adoption whispered in the back of my mind for years. I’d push it away, convincing myself I was too old. I was set in my routines and scared.
Because that was the truth. I was terrified to hope again, open my heart, and risk losing everything all over again.
But the thought never left. It grew louder with every lonely breakfast, every quiet weekend, and every holiday spent alone.
And one gray Tuesday afternoon, after pouring coffee for one and staring at the empty chair across from me, I finally decided it was time.
I drove to the children’s shelter on the outskirts of town, my hands shaking on the steering wheel the entire way.
The building was older, painted a cheerful yellow that felt too bright for the sadness it held. Inside, it smelled like crayons and cleaning supplies. Children’s voices echoed down hallways, soft and musical.
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