“Car seat?” I ask as I tug my boots on. My heels and toes ache, but I don’t give a damn—nothing could stop me from getting to my son.
My son.
“I already installed it in the car,” he says quickly, grabbing our jackets. “And I have formula, diapers, enough wipes to last us weeks, and clothes in here,” he adds, picking up a large diaper bag. “It’s a forty-minute drive, but I figured we can never be too prepared.”
I look around our flat—the flat we purchased a year after we began dating. It’s small, and it needs work, but it’s central to the university, and it’shome.Two bedrooms—one of which has been turned into a nursery for this very reason. We knew a long time ago that we wanted to have kids, and the more we thought about it, the more we realized that adoption was the right path for us. We haven’t completely given up on biological children, but the longer we go without biological kids, the more we realize that neither of us wants to continue our bloodlines. We want a fresh start, a detour away from the family tree that can’t be mended. So many horrible things in our past—we didn’t want to bring that history forward. We wanted a new beginning.
“I think that’s everything,” I mumble, and we exit the flat, locking the door behind us.
When we get back, we’ll be a family of three.
I fidget nervously the entire drive, checking that the car seat is installed properly approximately ten times. I wish I’d showered—or changed clothes. But the more I think about it, the more I don’t care. He’s four months old.Hecertainly won’t care.
Benedict reaches out for my hand. “Stop fidgeting. We’ll be fine.”
“I’m nervous,” I reply, tapping my foot against the bed of the car. “Where is he? The agency?”
Benedict nods. “Yeah, an office there.”
I nod, looking out of the window. It’s a clear May day, the pillowy clouds high and fluffy. I smile as we exit, my heart racing against my chest.
“My heart is going to explode with nerves,” I say as Benedict weaves through the narrow street, checking the GPS on our car as he slows.
“Me too,” he smiles, stopping as he parallel parks in front of what I presume is the office. He turns the car off and looks at me. “Ready to meet our son?”
I nod, tearing up again. “Yes,” I answer, grinning.
We started the process two years ago—and it’s been two years of agony, followed by despondence when we didn’t hear from them right away. I knew it would take a long time, but when the months started ticking by without a word… I kind of lost hope. I’d set a reminder on my phone to wash the crib sheets and a few of the clothes every couple of months to keep them freshjust in case, but I knew I needed to dust in the nursery before we brought him in to sleep. It’s been sitting there, waiting, for two years.
And now we have a baby for it.
We march through the front door together, and a few of the agency workers look at us and smile as we walk in and look around. One of them is holding a baby, and a sob escapes my lips as she strolls over, carrying our son.
Our son.
“Evelyn and Benedict?” One of the workers asks. We nod, and they begin to clap. “Do you want to meet your baby?”
I reach out for him as she places him in my arms, and the nerves disappear—my heartbeat slows, and I cradle him and stroke his cheek, taking in his face. Benedict comes to stand next to me, and we both weep as his eyes find mine. Dark blue eyes, light brown peach fuzz, and a lopsided smile…
“He’s perfect,” I coo, wiping my cheeks. I hand him to Benedict and take a step back, watching as Benedict tenderly brushes his finger against our son’s cheek. He smiles, tears squeaking out from the corners of his eyes. The sight of him—holding our baby… I will never, ever forget this moment as long as I live. For every horrible thing that happened to me, to Benedict… I would do it a hundred times over just to get to this moment.
I take a bazillion pictures, and then we sign the paperwork and do all of the bureaucratic things that adoption entails. There’s an extra step because we’re not married, but it doesn’t deter us. Marriage was not something we were interested in—almost as if our relationship is deeper than that. Similar to having biological children, though, the option is not completely off the table.
By the time we walk out with some extra diapers, a blanket, and a box of things from his birth mother, it’s late and dark. We don’t have a name yet, so we’ve been calling him baby boy—and baby boy is fast asleep. I triple check that he’s secure in his infant seat before we drive off. We’re both still in disbelief that we got the call—that it actually happened. We’d been waiting for so long. I reach out for Benedict’s hand as he exits the highway.
“Where are you going?” I ask, my voice sleepy. I know I’m probably in for alotof sleepless nights soon, and the thought sends excited butterflies through me.
I’m a mom!
“I’m starving,” he replies, and then he turns into a McDonald’s drive thru.
“You read my mind.”
“I’m craving a McFlurry.”
I laugh. “Are you really?”
“You opened Pandora’s Box when you introduced me to them that night on our way to Edinburgh,” he says, laughing and pulling to a stop in line.
