Three weeks later, we were sitting in a café when he pushed a cookie toward me.
“Don’t worry,” he said without looking up from his book. “I checked. No raisins.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing.
He had remembered one tiny detail about a girl he would never meet.
He had carried it around for three weeks.
Then turned it into an act of kindness.
I had to look away.
That was the day I knew.
—
Eventually, adoption came up.
Carefully.
Like both of us were afraid that saying the word too loudly might make it disappear.
“You’d really want that?” Luke asked one afternoon.
“Yes.”
“Permanent?”
“That’s generally what adoption means.”
He picked at the label on his water bottle.
“What if I mess everything up?”
“Then we deal with whatever you messed up.”
“What if you regret adopting me?”
“Then I would be an adult experiencing a feeling,” I said. “And you would still be my son.”
