“They asked whether I would want to adopt you.”
His face went unreadable.
I forced myself not to fill the silence.
Then I said, “I told them yes.”
His eyes lifted.
“If you want it.”
That mattered.
I needed him to understand that part.
“If you don’t, nothing about how I feel about you changes.”
His fingers curled beneath the table.
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
He looked away.
“I want you here.”
His throat moved.
“I want you here whether you ever speak or not.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“I don’t want a version of you that’s easier for people.”
I didn’t realize I was crying until a tear hit my hand.
“I want you.”
Alan stood abruptly.
For one terrifying second, I thought he was leaving.
Instead, he walked to the counter where I’d placed the preliminary adoption paperwork.
He stared at the first page.
My name was printed there.
EMILY BENNETT.
His name below it.
ALAN REED.
He put his hand on the paper.
Palm flat.
Covering both names.
Then he looked at me.
I stopped breathing.
His hand remained there.
Both names beneath one palm.
He did not tap.
He did not write.
He didn’t need to.
I nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
Something softened in his face.
Then he returned to his spaghetti.
That should have been the happiest night of my life.
Instead, it was the beginning of the most frightening months Alan and I had ever shared.
Because the closer we came to becoming a legal family, the more terrified he seemed of losing it.
PART 4: WHAT IF SILENCE MEANS NO?
The adoption process was not cruel.
That almost made the tension worse.
No one stormed into our home trying to take Alan away.
No secret relative appeared.
No villain stood in court arguing that I was unfit.
It was paperwork.
Interviews.
Background checks.
Reports.
Home visits.
Legal reviews.
Questions.
Endless questions.
The ordinary machinery of a system trying to make an extraordinary decision permanent.
But permanence was exactly what frightened Alan.
