My cousin Rebecca lived an hour away.
An old family friend named Marcus lived nearby.
I located a pediatrician.
I researched early intervention programs.
I attended appointments with permission.
I learned more about Down syndrome in six months than I had learned in my entire life.
One afternoon, Diane sat across from me in my parents’ living room.
“I need to ask something uncomfortable.”
“Okay.”
“Are you doing this because of Rachel?”
I looked at her.
“Partly.”
She waited.
I continued.
“Rachel is why I walked through the door.”
“And Maisie?”
I thought about the little girl who now laughed every time I pretended to sneeze.
“Maisie is why I’m staying.”
Diane nodded.
That was all.
Months passed.
I visited constantly.
Maisie learned me.
I learned her.
She loved playing peekaboo.
She hated peas.
She pulled off her socks whenever nobody was looking.
Her laugh began quietly and then took over her entire body.
Sometimes I would leave after a visit and sit in my car crying because I had no guarantee she would ever come home with me.
Then, finally, placement was approved.
Not an adoption.
Not yet.
An approved pre-adoptive placement while the legal process continued.
Diane met me at the office with the packet.
“Take your time,” she said. “You’ve seen most of this already, but read everything.”
I had.
My attorney had reviewed the drafts.
Diane had explained every condition.
Medical consent.
Supervision requirements.
Court dates.
Reporting obligations.
I knew what I was signing.
So I signed.
Page after page.
When I finished, Diane looked at the clock.
“That was under four minutes.”
I looked over at Maisie, who was chewing on the ear of a stuffed rabbit.
“I’ve had months to think about it.”
That afternoon, I took my daughter home.
Not legally my daughter yet.
But in every way that mattered inside that house, she was.
The first year was exhausting.
And wonderful.
There were medical appointments.
Developmental therapy.
Speech work.
Physical therapy.
Paperwork everywhere.
There were nights when she refused to sleep unless I walked circles around the living room carrying her.
There were mornings when I joined client calls with mashed banana on my shirt.
I learned to keep wipes in every room.
I learned that silence from a toddler was never good news.
Once, Maisie emptied an entire box of tissues onto the bathroom floor and sat in the middle of them laughing.
I took a picture before cleaning it up.
For years after my parents died, that house had been silent.
Now there were toys in the hallway.
Plastic cups in the kitchen.
Books stacked beside the couch.
