Years later, one rainy afternoon, I found myself pulling into the parking lot of an orphanage. I told myself I was only curious. I wasn’t looking to replace anyone.
Inside, the building smelled of disinfectant and crayons. Laughter echoed from one hallway, crying from another.
A caseworker named Deirdre explained the process honestly, without promises.
Then I saw her.
A small girl sat quietly in a wheelchair, holding a notebook while other children ran past her. Her expression was calm—too calm for someone so young.
“That’s Lily,” Deirdre said. “She’s five.”
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