The paperwork took weeks, with background checks, home visits, and interviews that felt like they’d never end. But finally, on a sunny Thursday morning, Lila became mine.
Her first night at home, she stood in the doorway of her new bedroom, clutching a small backpack that held everything she owned.
“This is really mine?” she whispered.
“All yours, sweetheart,” I said, my voice thick. “For as long as you want it.”
She didn’t want to sleep alone that first night. I sat on the edge of her bed, holding her hand until her breathing evened out and her grip loosened.
A few nights later, I heard her crying softly around midnight. I rushed to her room and found her tangled in the blankets, tears streaming down her face.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” I whispered, sitting beside her.
She looked at me with those big brown eyes. “Mom?”
I froze. She’d never called me that before.
“Yes, sweetheart?” My voice cracked. “I’m right here.”
She grabbed my hand and held on tight. “Don’t leave, okay?”
“Never,” I promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And in that moment, I felt every empty space in my heart fill up.
The first month flew by in a blur of hospital appointments and medication schedules. We learned each other’s rhythms. I discovered Lila loved strawberry pancakes and hated oatmeal. She discovered I couldn’t carry a tune but sang anyway.
Some mornings, she’d wake up too weak to get out of bed, and we’d spend the day on the couch watching movies. Other days, she’d insist on baking cookies even though half the ingredients ended up on the floor.
We were finding our way together, one quiet moment at a time.
Then, on a Wednesday morning exactly one month after she moved in, everything changed.
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