At first, I didn’t recognize it.
He had always been organized.
Now he became rigid.
The pencils on his desk had to be perfectly aligned.
His books were arranged by height.
He checked the lock three times instead of two.
Then four.
He began waking before dawn.
Some mornings, I found him sitting at the kitchen table at five-thirty, fully dressed for school.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Two taps.
Yes.
“Nightmare?”
He looked down.
No answer.
I did not press.
His appetite changed too.
Half a waffle.
Then none.
I started finding uneaten lunches in his backpack.
Dr. Patel noticed.
Karen noticed.
Everyone noticed.
And because everyone noticed, everyone began asking questions.
Which made everything worse.
The court needed documentation that Alan understood what adoption meant.
His attorney spoke with him privately.
Dr. Patel reviewed the concept.
Karen went through his rights.
Each person was kind.
Each person gave him writing options.
Still, by the time the third adult asked him whether he understood that adoption would permanently change his legal relationship with me, Alan’s hands shook so badly he couldn’t hold his pen.
I found him in his room that evening.
Pencils.
Eleven of them.
Perfectly aligned.
I sat on the floor outside his doorway.
“Too many questions?”
Two taps against the desk.
Yes.
“I’m sorry.”
He adjusted a pencil.
“Do you want me to tell them to slow down?”
Two taps.
Then, after a pause, one.
Yes.
No.
I waited.
Alan grabbed a sticky note.
He wrote:
THEY NEED TO KNOW.
“Yes.”
Another note.
IF I DON’T ANSWER RIGHT THEY MIGHT SAY NO.
My chest tightened.
“Alan.”
He stared at the paper.
“There is no right answer except your answer.”
His pencil moved.
WHAT IF THEY THINK QUIET MEANS NO?
There it was.
The fear beneath everything.
I got off the floor and sat in the chair near his desk, leaving space between us.
“Then we’ll make sure they understand.”
His jaw clenched.
“Your attorney understands.”
