We spent years chasing that dream—through doctors, tests, and fragile hope that always ended in disappointment. Eventually, the doctors told me I would never be able to carry a child. My body just couldn’t do it.
Dylan held me as I cried.
“We’ll adopt. We’ll still be parents. I promise.”
But we never got the chance.
At his funeral, standing in front of his casket, I made him a promise through my tears.
“I’ll still do it, Dylan. I’ll adopt a child. The one we never got to have.”
Three months later, I walked into an adoption agency.
I brought my mother-in-law, Eleanor, with me for support. She had been devastated by Dylan’s death too, and I thought her presence might help both of us.
I wasn’t looking for a sign. I’ve never been spiritual. I don’t believe in messages from beyond.
Until I saw her.
She was sitting quietly in the corner, like someone who had already learned not to expect to be chosen. Around twelve years old—an age the system often quietly labels as “too old.”
When she looked up at me, everything seemed to stop.
She had Dylan’s eyes.
Not similar. Not close.
