“And Maisie?”
I thought about the little girl who now laughed every time I pretended to sneeze.
“Maisie is why I’m staying.”
Diane nodded.
That was all.
Months passed.
I visited constantly.
Maisie learned me.
I learned her.
She loved playing peekaboo.
She hated peas.
She pulled off her socks whenever nobody was looking.
Her laugh began quietly and then took over her entire body.
Sometimes I would leave after a visit and sit in my car crying because I had no guarantee she would ever come home with me.
Then, finally, placement was approved.
Not an adoption.
Not yet.
An approved pre-adoptive placement while the legal process continued.
Diane met me at the office with the packet.
“Take your time,” she said. “You’ve seen most of this already, but read everything.”
I had.
My attorney had reviewed the drafts.
Diane had explained every condition.
Medical consent.
Supervision requirements.
Court dates.
Reporting obligations.
I knew what I was signing.
So I signed.
Page after page.
When I finished, Diane looked at the clock.
“That was under four minutes.”
I looked over at Maisie, who was chewing on the ear of a stuffed rabbit.
“I’ve had months to think about it.”
That afternoon, I took my daughter home.
Not legally my daughter yet.
But in every way that mattered inside that house, she was.
The first year was exhausting.
And wonderful.
There were medical appointments.
Developmental therapy.
Speech work.
Physical therapy.
Paperwork everywhere.
There were nights when she refused to sleep unless I walked circles around the living room carrying her.
There were mornings when I joined client calls with mashed banana on my shirt.
I learned to keep wipes in every room.
I learned that silence from a toddler was never good news.
Once, Maisie emptied an entire box of tissues onto the bathroom floor and sat in the middle of them laughing.
I took a picture before cleaning it up.
For years after my parents died, that house had been silent.
Now there were toys in the hallway.
Plastic cups in the kitchen.
Books stacked beside the couch.
I had not realized how lonely I had become until I was no longer lonely.
Almost a year after placement, we went to court.
The judge asked me questions.
I answered them.
My hands shook anyway.
Then she signed the final order.
Maisie became my daughter legally.
Afterward, Greg met us outside the courthouse.
He looked at her.
Then at me.
“I think about her sometimes.”
I knew what he meant.
“You made the decision you thought you could live with.”
He nodded slowly.
“She’s happy.”
“Yeah.”
Maisie reached toward him.
Greg smiled and let her grab his finger.
“She really is.”
That weekend, I took her to Rachel’s grave.
Maisie was walking by then, though “walking” meant taking six determined steps and then sitting down wherever gravity decided.
We brought flowers.
I spread a blanket beside the headstone and pulled out one of Maisie’s favorite books.
She climbed into my lap.
I read her a book.
She kept trying to turn three pages at once.
“One at a time,” I told her.
She giggled.
I looked at Rachel’s name.
There were still moments when her death felt impossible to understand.
Maisie did not fix that.
She was not supposed to.
She was her own person.
Her own life.
Her own joy.
I touched the birthmark on her cheek.
“I’m going to tell you all about your mom someday,” I whispered.
Maisie grabbed the book.
Apparently, she had more urgent concerns.
I laughed.
When we finished, I packed everything up.
Maisie held one of my fingers as we walked toward the car.
“Come on, kiddo,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
She looked up at me and smiled.
And we did.
