I met Luke anyway. He politely offered me his chair, then spent nearly an hour discussing his book with me. Over four months, we met at libraries, parks, diners, and supervised outings. He was guarded and funny, remembered small details, and never became the frightening teenager everyone seemed to expect. Eventually, we discussed adoption.
Luke worried that he would ruin it. I told him that if he made a mistake, we would deal with it, and if I ever felt regret, I would still be the adult responsible for that feeling while he remained my son. When he moved in, he treated everything as borrowed. He made his bed, washed every plate, folded towels, and repaired a loose porch step. One day he accidentally called me Mom. We both pretended not to notice, but he kept using the word.
Two weeks after the adoption became final, Luke sat at dinner trembling. He said he needed to tell me something that might make me send him back. Then he revealed that he had a nine-year-old half-sister named Emma. They entered foster care together, and Luke had practically raised her. When a family offered Emma a home but had no room for fourteen-year-old Luke, adults pressured him to decide what was best for her. He agreed to let her go.
