“He still doesn’t talk?” “He’s too old now, isn’t he?” “Is… something wrong with the kid? Don’t you want to get him some help?”
I smiled every time.
“He doesn’t need to talk until he’s ready,” I’d say. “He just needs to feel loved. And he just needs to stay.”
And every day, he did.
At fourteen, Alan grew taller than me. I caught him rearranging things I struggled to reach. He never said anything—he just quietly helped. I knew then: he was mine, even if the paperwork didn’t say so yet.
“He just needs to feel loved. And he just needs to stay.”
I filled out the adoption forms the week before his birthday.
When I told him, I didn’t ask.
“If you want me to make it official, my sweetheart, I will. You don’t have to say anything. Just nod, Alan. Okay?”
He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded once.
The morning of the hearing, he barely touched his breakfast. His hands fidgeted, folding the napkin into smaller and smaller squares.
“You’re not getting returned, baby,” I said. “I promise. That’s not what this is about.”
He didn’t look up.
