My wife, Claire, and I tried for years to have a baby. When that failed, she suggested adoption. It felt right. After months of waiting, we met Sophie — a bright-eyed 4-year-old who had been in foster care since infancy. From day one, she clung to us, calling us Mommy and Daddy before it was even official.
And then, one month after bringing her home, I walked in from work, and Sophie barreled into me, wrapping her little arms around my legs. Her voice trembled.
Confused, I knelt down. “Leave to where, sweetheart?”
Her lips trembled, and tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t wanna go away again. I wanna stay with you and Mommy.”
A cold chill ran through me. “That won’t happen,” I assured her, stroking her hair. But then, Claire stepped into the hallway, her face pale, her expression unreadable.
“We need to talk.”
I sent Sophie to her room, promising her everything was fine. She nodded, sniffling, and went, but I could feel her little heart racing against mine.
The moment her door closed, Claire turned to me, her jaw tight.
“We need to give her back.”
I blinked, sure I had misheard. “What?”
When she told me her reason, I took a step back
Claire walked into the living room and sank onto the couch. Her shoulders were trembling as she tried to keep herself composed. I sat down next to her and gently put my hand on her shoulder, waiting for an explanation. She took a shaky breath.
“I thought I could handle everything,” she began, her voice quivering. “But it’s harder than I ever imagined. Sophie… she’s not what I expected.” She swallowed hard, looking like she regretted even saying the words out loud. “I feel like I’m messing up every second. I don’t know how to be the mother she needs.”
I stared at her, my mind reeling. “So you’d rather send her back to a life of foster homes and uncertainty?” My voice came out sharper than I intended. I was stunned and, honestly, angry.
“I’m… I’m scared,” she admitted, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I know it sounds heartless, but I can’t keep pretending everything is fine when I feel so completely inadequate.” She looked at me with a desperation I had never seen before. “I love her… but my love isn’t enough to get rid of this fear.”
I took a breath, trying to calm down. “Claire, adoption was your idea,” I said quietly. “You were so excited. You were the one who pushed me to check out all the agencies and get the paperwork done. What changed?”
She looked away, tears pooling in her eyes. “My mother kept calling, telling me horror stories about older children with behavioral issues. You know how she is—always planting seeds of doubt. And then Sophie had that meltdown last week at the grocery store. It was just a regular tantrum, but it made me question everything. My mom keeps saying maybe we ‘rushed into it.’ That adopting a four-year-old is too big of an adjustment. She thinks we should have tried for a newborn, or maybe even tried another round of fertility treatments.”
As I listened, something in my chest tightened. I knew Claire had her own insecurities. Maybe her mother’s toxic remarks were feeding the worst parts of her self-doubt. But hearing her talk about giving Sophie up felt like a knife twisting in my gut.