“I know,” I said. “But I can’t watch a little girl who’s already lost everything get carried away by more strangers.”
She made me sign forms right there in the hallway before Avery could leave with me.
One night became a week. A week turned into months of paperwork, background checks, home visits, and parenting classes squeezed between 12-hour shifts.
The first time Avery called me “Daddy,” we were in the cereal aisle. “Daddy, can we get the one with the dinosaurs?” She froze, like she’d said something forbidden. I crouched down. “You can call me that if you want to, sweetheart.” Relief and grief mixed on her face, and she nodded.
Six months later, I adopted her. Officially.
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