Everyone told me adopting Luke was a mistake.

“He’s sixteen,” my sister said over the phone, worry tightening every word. “Do you realize how many homes a teenager like that has already been through?”

I did.

Ten.

I had seen the number in his file, and it had stayed with me ever since.

“Caroline, kids who have been moved that many times carry things with them. Things you may not be able to fix.”

“Everybody carries something,” I said.

She sighed.

It was the same sigh she had been giving me for the past three years.

But two weeks after Luke’s adoption became official—two weeks after I signed the papers that made him legally and permanently my son—he sat across from me at the dinner table, lowered his fork, and started trembling.

Then he said something that changed everything.

“Mom, I need to tell you why.”