Anna could express trust.
She could not override the law.
The baby’s biological father eventually formally relinquished his parental rights.
Social services searched for relatives.
One distant cousin was located but declined placement.
At one point, our caseworker gently warned us that another family might still be selected.
I went home afterward and cried in our garage beside the dusty box of baby things James had never allowed me to donate.
Eventually, though, we were approved as her foster family.
And months later, the adoption became permanent.
She came home for good in the spring.
Then came one final surprise.
The first time I saw her birth certificate, I almost dropped it.
Her name was Clara.
Clara.
The name I had carried in my heart since I was nineteen.
Anna could not possibly have known.
Nobody outside James and me knew.
Coincidences can sometimes feel almost cruel in their perfection.
We kept the name.
But when the adoption became final, I asked James for one change.
“I want Anna in her name.”
His eyes immediately filled.
Not hidden somewhere in paperwork.
Not reduced to a story we only whispered occasionally.
I wanted the woman who had brought her into the world to remain part of the name our daughter heard every day.
So she became Clara Anna.
Our sons loved it.
Actually, they loved it too much.
“CLARA ANNA!”
They yelled it down hallways.
Across the yard.
From upstairs.
