Years later, one rainy afternoon, I found myself pulling into the parking lot of an orphanage. I told myself I was only curious. I wasn’t looking to replace anyone.
Inside, the building smelled of disinfectant and crayons. Laughter echoed from one hallway, crying from another.
A caseworker named Deirdre explained the process honestly, without promises.
Then I saw her.
A small girl sat quietly in a wheelchair, holding a notebook while other children ran past her. Her expression was calm—too calm for someone so young.
“That’s Lily,” Deirdre said. “She’s five.”
She’d been injured in a car accident. Her father died. Her spinal injury was incomplete—therapy might help, but progress would be slow. Her mother had signed away parental rights, unable to cope with the medical demands or the grief.
When Lily looked up and met my eyes, she didn’t look away. She looked like a child waiting to see if a door would open—or close again.
Something broke inside me.
I didn’t see a diagnosis. I saw a child who had been left behind.
No one wanted to adopt her.
I started the process immediately.
I visited her often. We talked about books and animals. She loved owls because, she said, “they see everything.” That stayed with me.
When I finally brought her home, she arrived with a backpack, a stuffed owl, and a notebook of drawings.
The first few days, she barely spoke. She just watched me—carefully.
