A week later, I filed the paperwork.
The process was slow—training sessions, background checks—but when the binder finally arrived in the mail, thick and full of possibility, I held it against my chest like it was a heartbeat.
“All you have to do now is wait,” I told myself in the mirror. “Your little one will come, Sylvie.”
So when they called about a boy no one wanted… I said yes without hesitation.
Alan arrived with a small backpack and eyes that made people uneasy.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t flinch.
He just stood in the doorway, scanning the room like he was mapping every exit.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said softly, holding out my hand. “Hi, Alan. I’m Sylvie.”
He didn’t take it.
Instead, he walked past me and sat quietly on the edge of the couch.
I offered him hot cocoa and cookies. He nodded faintly.
And that was how it began.
That first night, I read to him.
He didn’t look at me—but he didn’t leave either.
That was enough.
I never pushed him to speak. I simply lived alongside him, leaving space for words if they ever came.
I packed his lunches with handwritten notes.
Sometimes they were silly jokes—like squirrels stealing my tomatoes. Other times, they were simple and heartfelt:
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”
“You’re doing great, Alan.”
