Being abandoned had hurt too much.
So he had decided no one would ever get the chance to leave him first.
Then he whispered something else.
“I was going to do it to you.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“When I moved in, I had a plan.”
He couldn’t look at me.
“Stay a couple months. Let everyone get comfortable. Then change. Start pushing you away. Make you give up.”
His voice broke.
“So I could leave before you decided you didn’t want me anymore.”
I should have felt hurt.
Instead, I almost laughed through my tears.
Because the boy describing that plan was clearly not the same boy sitting at my table now.
“But you didn’t do it.”
“I messed up.”
“How?”
“I liked it here.”
He covered his face.
“I liked you.”
His shoulders started shaking.
“I liked the porch and your meatloaf and how you didn’t make everything into a huge thing.”
Then he broke completely.
“And then I started loving you.”
I stood and went around the table.
“And when the adoption became final,” he cried, “all I could think was that Emma would find out.”
He struggled to breathe.
“She’d think I chose you instead of her.”
I pulled him against me.
For years, this boy had tried to make himself small.
Polite.
Easy.
Perfect.
Now he finally collapsed.
Four years of grief came pouring out against my shoulder.
“You should have told me,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“But listen to me.”
I pulled back.
“You are my son.”
He stared at me.
“You are not going anywhere.”
His face crumpled.
“Adoption is not a trial period, Luke. You cannot misbehave your way out of being my child.”
A small broken laugh escaped him.
“You’re stuck with me forever.”
His entire body seemed to loosen.
And while I held him, I made myself a promise.
I was going to find Emma.
—
The next morning, after Luke left for school, I called Denise.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about Emma?”
Silence.
“There were decisions made years ago,” Denise finally said.
“What decisions?”
“Direct contact had become restricted while Emma was adjusting to her placement.”
“Restricted by whom?”
Another silence.
“The adults involved.”
Letters were supposedly meant to go through the adults.
Contact was supposed to be reconsidered later.
“Supposed to be,” I repeated.
Denise sighed.
“It wasn’t handled well.”
