Harold stared at the salt shaker for a long time.
I hung up and looked across the kitchen table at Harold.
“We could take him,” I said.
He blinked. “We’re almost 60.”
“I know,” I said. “But he’ll need somebody. Why not us?”
Harold stared at the salt shaker for a long time.
“Do you really want to do diapers and midnight feedings at our age?” he asked.
No one ever claimed him.
“I really don’t want him growing up feeling like nobody chose him,” I said.
Harold’s eyes filled with tears. That decided it.
We told the social worker we wanted to adopt.
Everyone reminded us of our age. “You’ll be in your 70s when he’s a teenager,” one woman said.
“We’re aware,” Harold said.
There were interviews, home visits, endless forms. The only thing that kept us going was the thought of that tiny baby alone somewhere.
