Six years ago today, we awakened with dread. "She changed her mind," I told Hubs.
"We don't know that."
"Of course we do. She changed her mind. We are going home, without a baby, again."
"Not again." That was him being literal. That's because I was over-reacting and stating mis-truths. Though we'd had a couple fall through, we'd never gotten this involved, nor had we ever driven to a pick-up. So we hadn't "gone home" devastated. We'd just sat at home, devastated.
Hubs took our luggage out to the car and stayed absent far too long. When I poked my head out the door he was on the phone and gave me the thumbs up.
Hospital, here we come!
Except it didn't work that smoothly. Because our attorney, who was facilitating the pass, lost our cell phone number. A gazillion hours later we finally connected.
And though a whole heck of a lot transpired, like meeting Eldest's mother (which we weren't supposed to get to do), and a dismissal that was supposed to happen "now" that took two hours, and an extra friend that wasn't supposed to know about the pregnancy nor the fact that Hubs and I are as Caucasian (Euro Mutt) as they come...I was introduced to my son.
In a parking lot. Under a street light. He had ringlets in his hair and he was sucking on his bandaid. And I couldn't cry.
Besides, she now had 14 days to change her mind before I could leave the state or legally claim him as my own.
But he already had my heart.
That's weird -- September 15th (when I'm writing this) is the day that my adoptive parents took ME home!
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