Not Evelyn’s.
The social worker had looked at us carefully before saying, “She has Down syndrome. Some families feel unprepared.”
Unprepared. Such a neat word for such a cruel reality.
I had stepped closer to the crib. Evelyn opened her eyes, looked straight at me, and smiled as if she had been waiting.
That was it. That was the moment. No speeches, no dramatic certainty. Just a small child in a too-big crib, smiling at me like I already belonged to her.
Norton had reached into the crib and touched her tiny hand. She wrapped her fingers around his thumb immediately.
“We’re not leaving without her,” he said.
And we didn’t.
