When I first saw Evelyn, she was asleep in a crib too big for her tiny body, one fist tucked under her cheek, her curls damp with sweat. She was eighteen months old, and a social worker stood beside me holding a thin file that felt much too light to contain a whole life.
Her birth parents had left her at the hospital with a note.
“We can’t handle a special-needs baby. Please find her a better family.”
I remember reading those words and feeling something inside me crack open.
For years, Norton and I had been trying to become parents. There had been tests, treatments, prayers whispered in sterile waiting rooms, and losses I still couldn’t talk about without my throat closing. By the time we turned to adoption, we were exhausted in that deep, soul-heavy way grief can make you. We told ourselves we were open to any child, but the truth was, most of the profiles shown to us were quickly matched.
