Finally, she brought us to a foster center that smelled of crayons and cleaning solution. Children’s drawings covered the walls—bright hearts and uneven families sketched in marker.
In a small playroom, a little girl sat alone at a table, coloring with intense concentration. Her hair kept falling into her eyes, and she would puff it away impatiently.
“This is Hazel,” Denise said softly. “She’s four.”
Peter knelt beside her. “What are you making?”
“Flowers,” she answered, barely looking up.
“Do you have a favorite kind?” I asked.
“Sunflowers.”
She slid the crayon toward me as if granting permission. Something inside me shifted that day.
We returned again and again. The next week she brought us her favorite book. She wedged herself between us on a tiny couch while Peter made exaggerated character voices that drew shy giggles from her.
Driving home afterward, Peter stared at the road and said quietly, “I already love her.”
Months later, a judge declared Hazel officially ours.
We painted her room pale green and found sunflower bedding. When we brought her home, she stood in the doorway, unsure.
“Is this really my room?” she asked.
“It is,” I told her. “All of it.”
She touched the bed, the dresser, the curtains, as if they might vanish. Then she hugged me around the waist.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to thank us,” I said. “You’re home.”
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