PART 3

I picked her up.

She said something I still couldn’t completely understand.

“Yeah,” I told her. “Me too.”

That could have been the end of the story.

But adoption paperwork is only a morning.

Family is everything before and after.

Three months later, Marcus turned eight.

I asked what he wanted for his birthday.

“Nothing.”

By then, I understood what that answer really meant.

Marcus had learned to keep his wants small because small wants didn’t burden adults.

So I asked again.

“Not what you need. What do you want?”

He thought about it for several days.

Then he said he wanted a birthday that belonged only to him.

Not a shared family celebration.

Not something designed around everyone else.

Just his.

So Dana kept the younger kids.

Marcus and I went bowling.

He destroyed me.

We ate pizza afterward.

For several hours, he got to be an eight-year-old whose biggest concern was beating me at bowling.

On the drive home, he said,

“Thanks for doing it right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t know if I explained it properly. About wanting it to just be mine.”

“You explained it perfectly.”

He looked out the window.

“Mom always tried. She just didn’t always have what she needed.”

That was the first time he really told me about her.

Not about the night she died.

About her.

She worked at a diner.

Sometimes she brought leftover pie home.

She had a laugh that could fill the apartment.

She called Marcus her helper.

He had loved that.

He was beginning to understand that being proud of helping his mother and recognizing that he had carried too much could both be true.

So I told him exactly that.

“You can be proud of what you did and still know it was too much.”

“I know,” he said.

Amara kept drawing.

One afternoon, she handed me a picture of my house.

There were six people standing in front.

Five small figures.

One larger one.

She named each child.

Then she pointed at the large figure.

“That’s you.”

“I figured.”

“We’re all there.”

“Yes.”

She looked at the picture.

“I drew everybody because that’s what the house is.”

Then she added a giant sun above us.

“Done.”

And went back to drawing.

I sat there looking at it longer than she did.

Destiny eventually reached the stage where she sometimes wore seven headbands simultaneously.

I chose not to fight that battle.

There were better battles.

One afternoon, she was arranging toys on the kitchen floor while I handled paperwork.

Suddenly, she looked up.

“You’re my dad.”

It was the first time any of them had said it.

I froze.

“Yes.”

She studied me.

“Okay.”

Then she returned to her toys.

I pretended to return to the paperwork.

I didn’t actually read another word for several minutes.

Nina learned language quickly.

Marcus became Mark.

Amara became Ara.

Joel became Joe.

Destiny became Des.

For her first months with me, Nina used some sound for my name that I could never quite decipher.

Then one morning, while eating breakfast, she looked at me.

“Daddy.”

I looked back.

She repeated it because apparently she thought I hadn’t understood.

“Daddy.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“That’s me.”

She returned to her cereal.

That was all.

You can prepare court documents.

You can renovate a workshop.

You can build bunk beds.

You can spend your savings and buy five car seats.

There is no preparation for an eighteen-month-old deciding during breakfast that you are Daddy and then immediately going back to eating cereal.

You simply receive it.

A year after the first hearing, we were eating Sunday dinner at Dana’s house.

She looked around the table.

“You did it.”

“I’m doing it.”

“You survived the hardest part.”

“The hardest part is every part.”

She thought about it.

“Fair.”

That spring, Marcus had his first sleepover at a friend’s house.

Leaving home overnight was hard for him.

We didn’t rush it.

When he finally went, he called around ten.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything is fine.”

“Destiny didn’t get into anything?”

“Destiny is asleep.”

“She’s usually not asleep this early.”

“She is tonight.”

I smiled.

“Go enjoy yourself. I’ve got it.”

Silence.

Then:

“Okay.”

The following morning, he came home glowing with the satisfaction of a kid who had experienced something that belonged entirely to him.

That was the goal.

On the first anniversary of the day I brought them home, I made a chocolate cake.

It wasn’t fancy.

But all five children agreed on chocolate, which I considered a remarkable achievement in diplomacy.

We sat around the table.

I told them that one year earlier, our family had started.

And I was glad it had.

Marcus looked at me.

“You did a good thing.”

He said it like a factual statement.

Amara nodded.

“A really good thing.”

Joel had more important opinions about the cake.

Destiny wanted another slice.

Nina placed both hands on the table and looked around at everyone with the satisfaction of a child who knew exactly where she belonged.

I looked at them.

Twenty-nine years old.

Single.

No $22,000 savings account anymore.

No bigger property.

No land.

But I had this.

This table.

This cake.

These five particular people.

A year earlier, I had been sitting alone in my kitchen when I saw five children holding onto one another in a photograph.

Everyone had told me what I wanted to do was impossible.

It wasn’t impossible.

It was difficult.

There is a difference.

And it was worth it.

We finished the cake.

Then we continued.

Tomorrow, we will continue again.

That is what families do.

We keep going.