The first time I met Sophie, she rushed straight into my arms.
She was small, with big brown eyes and untamed curls, smelling of baby shampoo and fresh grass. She clung to me as if she already knew, as if she had made up her mind that I was hers.
For Claire and me, this moment was hard-won. Years of failed pregnancies, endless heartbreak. When we decided on adoption, the waiting felt unbearable: months of paperwork, home visits, and interviews.
And finally, here we were.
“You’re sure about this?” asked Karen, the social worker.
She sat across from us, a thick file in front of her. Sophie sat on my lap, playing with my wedding ring and humming softly to herself.
“Of course,” Claire said firmly. “She’s ours.”
Karen nodded, but her expression seemed doubtful. I tried not to take it personally—she’d probably seen families promising everything, only to fail the children later.
“I believe you mean it,” she said, “but adoption isn’t just about love. It’s about commitment. You’re bringing a child into your home who has had a rough start. Sophie will test you, push boundaries, maybe even break things—not on purpose, of course, but she’s just a child. You need to be prepared.”
Claire reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“We’re ready,” Claire said, smiling at Sophie, who beamed back at her.
“She’s a perfect little angel.”
“Alright,” Karen hesitated. “Then, congratulations, Claire and Simon. You’re officially parents.”
A shift happened in my chest. This was the beginning of forever.
