Then came Evelyn. She was 18 months old and new to the system. She had no medical file, only a folded note:
“We can’t handle a special-needs baby. Please, find her a better family. Let her be loved well.”
Her diagnosis was Down syndrome, but what we saw was her smile. It was so beautiful and so full of life that it cracked something open in us.
“She needs us,” Norton had whispered after our first meeting with the sweet girl. “She’s meant for us, Chanel. This child was made… for us.”
I didn’t know then how true that was at the time.
After the paperwork was signed and we had taken Evelyn to the doctor for a checkup and advice, we finally had a way forward.
Norton and I took Evelyn to physical therapy appointments. He was there for every single one, helping her practice her grip strength. And we celebrated every inch of progress like it was a miracle. Because for us, it was.
The only person who never welcomed our daughter was Eliza — Norton’s mother.
She came to the house once, when Evelyn was two. Our daughter offered her a squiggy crayon drawing with a sun that had arms. Eliza didn’t even take it.
“You’re making a terrible mistake, Chanel,” she said, walking out the door.
We hadn’t seen her since.
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