Those early weeks were fragile. She asked permission for everything. She apologized for spilled water. At night she kept her door open and the hallway light glowing. Sometimes we found her standing in our doorway just to make sure we were still there.
“We’re not leaving,” Peter would reassure her.
Slowly, she relaxed. She laughed louder. She left toys scattered without fear. One evening she climbed into Peter’s lap and called him “Daddy,” then froze as if expecting correction.
Instead, he hugged her tightly. “That’s my favorite word,” he said.
By her fifth birthday, it felt like she had always been part of us.
We decorated the house in yellow and covered the table with sunflowers. She twirled in a bright dress, announcing it was the best day of her life.
Then came the knock.
Heavy. Certain.
The woman on the porch looked worn and anxious. Her gaze searched past me into the house.
“I’m her biological mother,” she said. “There’s something you need to know.”
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