I did.
"I'm still drinking, plainly."
I realized right then that her speech had been slightly slurred the entire conversation. "I couldn't even raise Willow properly, half the time," she said. "You genuinely think I should take on a baby who needs constant appointments, therapy, real stability?"
"You could actually get some help for it."
"And then what happens the next time I disappear back into this mess again?" She tapped the bottle sitting nearby. I genuinely didn't know what to say back to that. Her eyes filled with tears. "Not taking Poppy in is probably the very first responsible decision I've actually made in years."
That particular sentence stayed with me a long while afterward.
Before I left, I asked where Willow was actually buried. Donna gave me directions. The cemetery sat out on the edge of town. I found Willow's grave beneath a large maple tree. Her headstone was simple. Willow. Beloved Daughter and Mother.
I sat down in the grass. For a long while I said absolutely nothing at all. Then I laughed once, purely because I genuinely didn't know what else to actually do.
"Nine years," I said out loud. The wind moved gently through the branches overhead. "I thought about calling you maybe a thousand different times." My own voice broke apart. "I never actually did, though."
I looked at her carved name. "I'm genuinely sorry, Willow."
I told her all about Poppy. The yellow sleeper. The missing sock. The way she'd grabbed my collar without hesitation. "I saw the birthmark," I said, wiping at my own face. "She's beautiful, Willow."
Then I made the only real promise I felt I actually had any right to make. "If they'll let me, I'm going to make absolutely certain she has someone who genuinely stays this time."
Part Four: What I Signed
The next morning, I called Faye directly. "I want to know exactly what I have to do."
A pause followed. "To do what, specifically?"
"To actually be considered for Poppy's placement."
That single phone call began the longest process of my entire life. I stayed in town after that, which wasn't difficult financially, honestly. My own parents had died six years earlier, within eleven months of each other. I'd never sold their old house. I genuinely couldn't bring myself to. I'd paid a local company for years just to maintain it, keep the utilities running, handle basic repairs, keep the whole place from slowly falling apart.
For years I'd genuinely believed keeping that house had simply been some expensive emotional weakness on my part. Suddenly, I needed it desperately. I was no longer just visiting anymore. I was actually moving back in for good. My work as a financial consultant was mostly remote regardless, so that part came easily enough.
Then came the actual paperwork. Applications. Character references. Background checks. Fingerprinting. Full financial records. Health forms. Mandatory training sessions. Home inspections. Multiple interviews.
The social worker assigned to my case, Renee, stayed polite throughout, though genuinely relentless. "Who actually helps you if you happen to get sick?"
"My friend Wesley."
She raised one eyebrow. "Anyone else besides him?"
I built out a proper list after that. My cousin Vanessa lived roughly an hour away. An old family friend named Owen lived nearby. I found a proper pediatrician. I researched early intervention programs thoroughly. I attended medical appointments with special permission granted.
I learned more about Down syndrome across those six months than I'd learned in my entire life before that point combined.
One particular afternoon, Renee sat across from me in my parents' old living room. "I need to ask you something genuinely uncomfortable."
"Okay, go ahead."
"Are you doing all of this because of Willow?"
I looked at her steadily. "Partly, yes."
She waited patiently for more. I continued. "Willow is exactly why I originally walked through that door."
"And Poppy herself?"
I thought about the little girl who now laughed uncontrollably every single time I pretended to sneeze around her. "Poppy is why I'm actually staying."
Renee nodded once. That was genuinely all she needed to hear.
Months passed steadily after that. I visited constantly. Poppy got to know me properly. I got to know her in return. She loved playing peekaboo endlessly. She genuinely hated peas with a passion. She pulled her own socks off constantly, whenever nobody happened to be watching. Her laugh started out quiet, then eventually took over her entire small body.
Sometimes I'd leave after a visit and simply sit in my car crying, purely because I had absolutely no guarantee she'd ever actually come home with me for good.
Then, finally, the placement was formally approved. Not a full adoption yet. Not quite there yet. An approved pre-adoptive placement instead, while the actual legal process continued forward.
Renee met me at her office carrying the full packet. "Take your time," she said. "You've already seen most of this material, but read through everything carefully regardless."
I had already done exactly that. My attorney had gone through every draft beforehand. Renee had explained each individual condition clearly. Medical consent forms. Supervision requirements. Scheduled court dates. Ongoing reporting obligations.
I knew precisely what I was signing my name to. So I signed. Page after page after page.
When I finally finished, Renee glanced over at the clock. "That took under four minutes total."
I looked over at Poppy instead, who was busy chewing contentedly on the ear of a stuffed rabbit. "I've had months already to think it all through properly."
That same afternoon, I finally took my daughter home. Not legally my daughter quite yet. But in every single way that genuinely mattered inside that house, she absolutely was.
Epilogue: What the House Sounded Like Again
The first full year was genuinely exhausting. And wonderful, all at once. There were countless medical appointments. Developmental therapy sessions. Speech work. Physical therapy. Paperwork scattered absolutely everywhere.
There were nights she refused to sleep unless I walked slow circles around the living room, carrying her the entire time. There were mornings I joined client conference calls with mashed banana smeared across my shirt. I learned to keep baby wipes stashed in literally every single room. I learned that genuine silence from a toddler was never, ever good news.
Once, Poppy emptied an entire box of tissues out onto the bathroom floor and sat right in the middle of the pile, laughing hysterically. I took a photograph before cleaning any of it up.
For years after my own parents died, that house had sat genuinely silent. Now there were toys scattered across the hallway. Plastic cups piled in the kitchen sink. Books stacked messily beside the couch. I honestly hadn't fully realized how lonely I'd become, until I suddenly wasn't lonely anymore at all.
Almost a full year after the initial placement, we finally went to court together. The judge asked me several direct questions. I answered each one honestly. My hands shook the entire time regardless. Then she signed the final order.
