I smiled every time.
“He doesn’t need to talk until he’s ready,” I’d say. “He just needs to feel loved. And he just needs to stay.”
And every day, he did.
At fourteen, Alan grew taller than me. I caught him rearranging things I struggled to reach. He never said anything—he just quietly helped. I knew then: he was mine, even if the paperwork didn’t say so yet.
“He just needs to feel loved. And he just needs to stay.”
I filled out the adoption forms the week before his birthday.
When I told him, I didn’t ask.
“If you want me to make it official, my sweetheart, I will. You don’t have to say anything. Just nod, Alan. Okay?”
He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded once.
The morning of the hearing, he barely touched his breakfast. His hands fidgeted, folding the napkin into smaller and smaller squares.
“You’re not getting returned, baby,” I said. “I promise. That’s not what this is about.”
He didn’t look up.
“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?
