Now as I looked at the photo of Thorin, I knew he was the boy from my dream. Even though Thorin was two-and-a-half years old, at twenty-one pounds and thirty-two inches he would be mistaken for being much younger. I felt that calm again.
The photo was the only tangible evidence we had that Thorin existed. I carried him in my bag. I talked to him constantly in my head. Mostly, I said things such as “Hold on”; “Soon”; and “I love you.”
Every couple of weeks, Linda would email with some new piece of information about Thorin:
•Thorin is signing the words “milk” and “more.”
•Thorin went to Boston with his foster mom and another foster family to see the sights! He had a blast!
•Thorin had surgery a few days ago. Poor guy needed a root canal as well. They put him to sleep so they could do the work. Foster mom said he’s been clingy but good-natured.
•Another family is interested in Thorin. They are from out of state and well off. My supervisor is insisting I consider them given the financial needs he will likely have. I’ll call later.
The last update made me feel faint. I called Ward, and we agreed to ride this out. We had no other choice. We also wondered if Thorin needed a family with more money.
When I talked to Linda I told her, “We feel like he’s ours. We want the best for him, but no one will love him more.”
“I know that,” she said. “Hang tough.”
I had a dream a few days later. I was sitting on a chair in an otherwise empty room. I heard a voice say, “He’s your kid.” I stood up and left the room. When I woke up, I experienced that calm—my now familiar signal that it would be all right. I told Ward about my dream.
“Let’s go with that,” he said.
A week later, the other family had been dismissed as an option, and we were told we were the only family from here on in and the court hearing to terminate parental rights was a week away. Thorin would be “free” for adoption after that!
When the day arrived, there was a snowstorm that shut down the city and cancelled court. Linda called to let us know the hearing could be rescheduled in five to seven months. Until that time, Thorin would remain in reunification status.
“What does this mean exactly?” I asked.
“It means he is not technically free for adoption. Theoretically, his biological mother can continue to make a case for getting him back.”
“In spite of everything . . .” I trailed off.
“I would call this a low-risk adoption,” she said. “It is very unlikely he would ever be returned.”
That’s what every expectant parent wants to hear: “It is very unlikely he would ever be returned.” Neither of us said anything for a moment.
“No one will blame you if you wait until the next hearing before taking him,” she offered before we hung up.
My same friends—who had two hours to prepare for the delivery of their foster daughter—also experienced the painful reality of losing her. The little girl lived with them for nine months as they hoped and waited to adopt her, then she was taken away by the state and placed with biological relatives. States favor blood relations regardless of whether they are the best choice for the child. Four months later, the state returned her to them. My friends eventually adopted her, but not before all three of them had paid a hefty price. I knew it could happen us, too.
I briefed Ward.
“I would rather have him now,” I said.
“She said ‘low-risk,’ right?” asked Ward.
“Right.”
“I don’t want to wait either.”
We called Linda back and told her our decision. Our family profile of a boy whose parental rights had been terminated and who did not have a disability had gone to the wayside because of Thorin. We just wanted him.
While most people meet their child for the first time in a delivery room, ours was introduced to us in the reception area of a single-story administrative building located in a business park alongside warehouses. Ward and I stood anxiously in the fifty-shades-of-office gray waiting room with Linda, Karen—Thorin’s guardian ad litem (GAL)—and a foster care supervisor. It had been almost five months since Linda had told us about Thorin.
It wasn’t too long before Sherry, Thorin’s current foster mother, walked in with a very small boy in her arms. He peeked at us over Sherry’s shoulder where he was burrowed. I can still see his profile against Sherry’s sweater: a gorgeous boy with blond hair, blue, almond-shaped eyes, a little squished nose, and a shy, sweet smile. His soft fist was resting on his chin. Thorin became the subject in sharp focus, and everything and everyone in the room was a blur. I could hear appreciative murmurings faintly from the others.
What do you say the first time you meet your two-and-half-year-old kid? You want to say, “I love you! I can’t believe this is happening!” But that, without a doubt, is going to freak out a child who has no idea who you are. Instinctively, Ward and I went to hug Thorin, which meant hugging Sherry too. We pulled both of them into us. We tried not to overwhelm Thorin, a difficult task when you yourself are overwhelmed. We didn’t get to exactly melt into the moment as we hoped because were immediately ushered into a conference room.
The seven of us sat at a ridiculously large table for such an intimate matter. I kept my hands pressed against the table’s edge, mostly so I wouldn’t float away. For the first several minutes, everyone sounded like they were talking underwater. The blaring voice in my head drowned them out: THIS IS MY SON! THAT’S MY KID! I LOVE HIM! I LOVE HIM SO MUCH! IN FACT, I LOVE EVERYBODY!
How did they expect us to behave normally? Sure, doling out kids
