The children's group home was busy when we arrived.
There were children moving around, toys being passed between little hands, and voices coming from different parts of the room.
Some were playing together.
Others were looking through the things we had brought.
It was the kind of scene I had grown familiar with through my volunteer work.
I liked seeing the children receive something new.
Even a small toy could make an ordinary afternoon feel special.
We began helping with the supplies.
There were several things to arrange, and the other volunteers were occupied with their tasks.
I moved around the room, looking at what needed to be done.
Then I noticed her.
A little girl.
She wasn't joining the other children.
She wasn't reaching for the toys or trying to get anyone's attention.
She was sitting by herself.
Quietly.
I remember looking at her for longer than I intended.
There was something about the way she sat there that caught my attention.
She seemed separate from everything happening around her.
The other children were occupied with their own activities.
But this little girl remained alone.
I wondered whether she was shy.
Perhaps she simply needed time to become comfortable around visitors.
I didn't want to make assumptions.
Still, I found myself looking back at her.
I had spent years visiting places where children needed help.
I knew that not every child responded to new people in the same way.
Some were immediately curious.
Some preferred to watch.
Some needed a little encouragement before they felt comfortable.
So I didn't rush toward her.
I continued with the work, but my attention kept returning to that small figure.
Eventually, I spoke with one of the caseworkers.
I asked about the little girl.
That was when I learned her name.
Lily.
She was only three years old.
Three.
I repeated her age silently because it seemed so young.
She had already spent quite some time in foster care.
And then the caseworker told me something I wasn't expecting.
Five families had previously considered adopting Lily.
Five separate families.
But none of them had gone through with it.
Each had backed out.
I looked at the caseworker.
I wasn't sure I had understood correctly.
Five families?
For a child who was barely three years old?
I asked myself what could possibly make so many people change their minds.
I didn't know the answer.
The caseworker had explained the situation, but I still couldn't understand it.
I looked toward Lily again.
She was still sitting alone.
I tried to imagine what it must have felt like for such a young child to experience one family after another considering her and then leaving.
I didn't know what she understood about adoption.
I didn't know how much she remembered.
But I couldn't stop thinking about those five families.
Five times, someone had come close to making her part of their home.
Five times, something had stopped it.
And Lily was still there.
I felt a heaviness in my chest.
I had known loneliness myself.
I had spent years returning to a house where the people I loved were no longer waiting for me.
But I was an adult.
I could understand what had happened.
Lily was only a little girl.
She deserved a chance to grow up feeling wanted.
She deserved a family.
She deserved someone who would choose her and mean it.
I didn't know why the other families had withdrawn.
I didn't know what their reasons were.
At that moment, all I could see was the child sitting by herself.
And I couldn't bring myself to think of her as a problem someone else had decided not to take on.
I thought about my own daughter.
I remembered how small she had once been.
I remembered what it meant to have a child depend on you.
I remembered the ordinary responsibilities that came with being a mother.
Those memories hurt.
They still did.
But looking at Lily made me feel something I hadn't felt in years.
Not exactly happiness.
Something closer to a desire to care for someone again.
I knew I was sixty-eight.
I knew I lived alone.
I knew that adopting a young child was not a small decision.
But those facts didn't make the feeling disappear.
I kept looking at Lily.
She was still separate from the other children.
I wondered whether anyone had ever looked at her and immediately thought, I want to give this little girl a home.
I wanted to be that person.
The thought frightened me a little.
I had not planned to adopt anyone.
I had not arrived at the group home searching for a child.
I had come with donations from the church.
That was all.
But sometimes a decision begins before you have time to prepare yourself for it.
I looked at the caseworker again.
My voice came out more firmly than I expected.
I told her I wanted to know what I needed to do to adopt Lily.
She looked at me.
For a moment, I wasn't sure what she would say.
I repeated myself.
I was serious.
I wanted to find out how to give that little girl a home.
The caseworker seemed surprised.
I couldn't blame her.
I was nearly seventy.
I lived alone.
I hadn't cared for a small child in many years.
I understood why my request might sound unexpected.
But I also knew what I had felt when I looked at Lily.
It was difficult to explain.
I didn't believe I could replace her previous experiences.
I didn't believe love could erase everything she had already gone through.
I simply believed she deserved someone willing to stay.
And I wanted to try.
For the first time in a very long time, I had found something I wanted strongly enough to be afraid of losing it.
Lily had no idea what was going through my mind.
She was still a little girl sitting in that room.
But I had already made a decision.
I wanted to become her mother.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: At My Age, Everyone Had Questions About My Decision, but I Could Not Pretend My Heart Hadn’t Chosen Her
The Empty Space My Husband and Daughter Left Behind Was the One Place I Never Expected Another Child to Fill
Part 2 of 20
