“Alan, you’re mine,” I added. “You’re my baby. And nothing about today changes that, other than the paperwork confirming it.”
He met my eyes briefly. I saw hesitation—maybe fear—but he nodded again.
The courtroom was cold and too bright, the kind of light that made everything feel more exposed than it should. Judge Brenner sat at the front, kind-faced, glasses slipping down his nose, a stack of papers before him that looked too heavy for something so personal.
Estella, our social worker, sat beside us with her usual clipboard and kind eyes.
“Alan,” the judge said warmly, “you don’t have to speak today, son. You can just nod or shake your head if that feels easier. Or you can write anything down. Do you understand me?”
Alan nodded once, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Do you want Sylvie to adopt you? Do you want this woman to be your mother, legally?” the judge asked, smiling gently as he gestured toward me.
Alan didn’t move.
The pause stretched too long. My chest tightened.
Did he not… want me?
I glanced at him. His shoulders were rigid, his hands clasped, thumbs pressed together like he was holding something in.
My throat went dry.
Then—he moved.
Alan shifted slowly, as though the weight of his body had changed. He cleared his throat. The sound was rough, jarring in the stillness.
I almost stopped breathing. Was my son about to speak for the first time?
And then… he spoke.
“Before I answer… I want to say something.”
Even Judge Brenner leaned forward.
“When I was seven, my mom left me at a grocery store. She said she’d be back soon. I waited. I waited until it got late. I was hungry, so I ate a cracker I found under the candy rack. That’s when the owner called the police and they found me.”
His hands tightened into fists.
