When Jacob and I met Bobby, he was a quiet five-year-old with eyes that carried more weight than they should. We had always dreamed of becoming parents. After years of trying and countless hospital visits, adoption became the path that felt right.
At the foster home, while other children played, Bobby stood quietly on the sidelines. He didn’t speak or smile, but something about the way he watched us lingered in our hearts. That night, Jacob and I didn’t need to say a word—we both knew. We had found our son.
The early days were filled with quiet moments. Bobby didn’t talk. He often stayed curled in corners, withdrawn. But every morning, we greeted him with warmth. Every night, we read to him. Slowly, he began to respond—first with a nod, then by reaching for our hands. One morning at breakfast, he whispered his first words to us: “Thank you.”
For his sixth birthday, we planned a simple celebration—balloons, a homemade cake, and just the three of us. Bobby was more animated than we had ever seen. But as he prepared to blow out the candles, he looked up and said, “My parents are alive.”
We were stunned. Gently, we asked more, and later that evening, our social worker visited and shared a part of Bobby’s history we hadn’t known. His biological parents were still living, but had made choices that led to him being placed in care.
Bobby remembered enough to ask to see them. We supported him. Together, we visited a large home where his biological family lived. The meeting was quiet, filled with long pauses. When Bobby asked, “Are you my mommy and daddy?” there was no clear answer. When he asked, “Why didn’t you want me?” there was silence.
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