Off The Record
I Adopted A Little Girl With Cancer Who No One Wanted—A Month Later, A Limo Stopped In Front Of My House
I decided to stay and adopt an orphaned little girl who was fighting cancer when everyone else left. I was unaware of the fact that love has a way of resurfacing, sometimes in unexpected ways.
At work parties, family get-togethers, and every other place where outsiders felt entitled to hear my life story, I was asked the same question for years: “Are you married? Are you a parent?”
“No. Just me.” I had to smile through the pain each and every time.
I never mentioned the price I paid for that response. On how many occasions did I cry myself to sleep? And the number of baby showers I’d gone to with a big smile on my face and a slightly shattered heart.
“At the age of 48, I’ve come to terms with being by myself. I’ve learned to act as though I have, anyway. But why is it still so painful? Every time someone inquired about my life, I used to ask myself this question.”
I had a different life in mind when I was younger. Pancakes burning on the stove, Saturday mornings noisy. In the laundry, tiny socks vanish. The refrigerator is covered in crayon drawings. A home filled with love, laughter, and turmoil.
The physicians then informed me that my body was just not capable of carrying a child, hence I would never be able to do so.
I made every effort. fertility procedures that sapped my optimism and my savings. drugs that caused my illness. Whispered prayers filled chilly clinic waiting rooms. However, each test yielded the same results, so I finally had to face reality.
After that, dating turned into a minefield. A few men claimed to comprehend. Holding my hand, they would assure me that it was irrelevant. However, I could see it in their eyes as reality set in weeks or months later. First, pity. Then disappointment. Next, distance.
They all went out one by one.
I so learned to choose myself rather than waiting to be selected.
I purchased a modest home on the outskirts of town that had two bedrooms, a swinging front porch, and far too much room for one person. I stocked it with books, plants, and everything else people gather to keep from feeling lonely.
But the quiet always returned, no matter how much I redecorated.
There were evenings when I would sit by the window and try to picture what it might sound like to hear tiny feet running down the hallway. I stopped dreaming of perfection. All I wanted was someone to adore, someone to care for, and someone to laugh with.
For years, the thought of adoption lingered in the back of my mind. I would ignore it, telling myself that I was too old. I was afraid and stuck in my ways.
For that was the reality. I was afraid to open my heart, to hope again, to run the danger of losing everything again.
However, the thought persisted. Every lonesome breakfast, silent weekend, and solitary holiday made it louder.
And I finally decided it was time one dreary Tuesday afternoon after pouring coffee for one and looking at the vacant chair across from me.
My palms trembled on the steering wheel as I drove to the children’s shelter on the outskirts of town.
The older structure was painted a bright yellow that seemed too cheery for the melancholy it contained. It smelled like cleaning supplies and crayons inside. The gentle, melodic sounds of children reverberated throughout the corridors.
At the main desk, I was greeted by Mrs. Patterson. Her eyes were gentle, and her smile was worn from too many farewells.
She murmured softly, “Feel free to look around,” “Take your time. The kids are in the shared space.”
With a pounding heart, I walked slowly. There were children everywhere, playing tag in little groups, painting at tables, and constructing towers out of blocks. I could tell they were carrying a lot of weight, even though their laughter should have been lighthearted. Every grin concealed a tale.
Then I caught sight of her.
There was a tiny girl sitting at the window by herself, huddled up as if she wanted to occupy as little room as possible. Her slender fingers were wrapped around a popsicle, and she had a knitted cap pulled low over her head.
Our gazes locked as she raised her head.
They were large, brown, and brimming with a melancholy that looked much too ancient for her face. She reluctantly returned my smile, though.
I approached her and knelt next to her. “That is just lovely.” “What are you drawing?”
“A house,” she murmured.
“Is that your house?”
She gave a headshake. “No. One day, I hope to have that one. has large windows that allow me to see the stars.”
My throat constricted. “That sounds perfect.”
She looked at me for a while. “What’s your name?”
“I’m…” After hesitating, I grinned. “You can call me whatever feels right.”
“I’m Lila,” she disclosed.
Mrs. Patterson came up next to me, speaking softly. “She has been with us for approximately a year. Before that, he bounced through a couple foster homes. The family, well, they were unable to cope when her disease reappeared.”
I gave her a stern look. “Her illness?”
Mrs. Patterson’s face became empathetic. “Leukemia. It was discovered at age five, went into remission, and returned last spring. Although she is currently stable, she requires continued care. Most families find it too much to handle.”
I returned my attention to Lila, who was busy coloring her make-believe home. Lost in her own little universe, she hummed softly to herself.
“Do you think…” I nearly missed Lila’s voice since it was so tiny. “Would anyone desire me, in your opinion? even if I become ill once more?”
Something inside of me broke as I heard the question.
I softly removed a lock of hair from her cheek with my outstretched hand. “Sweetheart, I think someone already does.”
Weeks were spent on the paperwork, which included endless interviews, house visits, and background checks. But at last, Lila was mine on a bright Thursday morning.
She clutched a small rucksack that contained everything she owned as she stood in the doorway of her new bedroom on her first night home.
She muttered, “This is really mine?”
I said, “All yours, sweetheart,” in a husky voice. “For as long as you want it.”
That first night, she didn’t want to sleep by herself. I sat on the edge of her bed and held her hand until her grasp relaxed and her breathing evened out.
Around midnight a few nights later, I heard her sobbing quietly. She was wrapped up in the blankets with tears running down her cheeks when I hurried to her room.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” I sat next to her and whispered.
Her large brown eyes were fixed on me. “Mom?”
I went cold. I had never heard her call me that before.
“Yes, sweetheart?” My voice broke. “I’m right here.”
She took hold of my hand and held on. “Don’t leave, okay?”
“Never,” as I vowed. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And all the voids in my heart began to fill at that instant.
Medication schedules and hospital appointments dominated the first month, which passed fairly quickly. We became familiar with one another’s rhythms. I found out that Lila detested oatmeal and adored strawberry pancakes. I sung even though she found out I couldn’t carry a song.
On some mornings, Mom would be too weak to get out of bed, so we would spend the day watching movies on the couch. On other days, despite the fact that half the ingredients ended up on the floor, she insisted on preparing cookies.
One silent moment at a time, we were figuring things out together.
Then, precisely one month after she moved in, everything changed on a Wednesday morning.
There was a continuous, low rumble outside as I was in the kitchen brewing tea. Multiple engines, not just one. The sort of noise that causes your windows to tremble.
I froze as I peered out.
Five elegant black vehicles surrounded a long black limousine that sat in front of my house. They were glossy, pricey, and totally out of place in our area; they looked like something from a movie.
My hands began to shake. “What in the world…”
The car doors opened in perfect time. Men in dark suits emerged, moving with purpose and accuracy. One of them came up my front porch with a briefcase; he was tall and silver-haired.
My heart pounding, I opened the door before he could knock. “Can I help you?”
He said, “Are you Lila’s guardian?” with grace.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Mr. Caldwell is my name. I work as a lawyer for an estate. Could I enter? You need to know something vital.”
I opened my mind to him, but there were so many possibilities that none of them made sense.
With well-honed efficiency, he opened his briefcase while seated at my kitchen table. “When Lilia was a baby, her biological parents, Robert and Emily, perished in a vehicle accident. They created a trust in her name prior to their deaths. They gave very detailed directions. The guardian would administer the estate on Lila’s behalf when she was adopted by a person who genuinely loved and cared for her.”
Unable to comprehend what he was saying, I just stared at him. “I don’t understand.”
A big folder was slid across the table by him. “They were concerned about the welfare of their daughter. By someone who choose her out of love, not by strangers driven by money.”
I opened the folder with shaking hands. Real, official, and overpowering are bank statements, property deeds, and legal documents.
As it happened, the trust refused to deliver the important documents until a long-term guardianship or adoption was made. However, through a trustee, it did pay for essential medical expenses.
He produced a little, cream-colored envelope that was wax-sealed after reaching into his briefcase once more. “Lila was given this. Also for whoever ended up becoming her family.”
I cautiously cracked the seal. A letter with lovely, feminine handwriting was inside:
To our most beloved Lila,
We’re keeping an eye on you from a better location if you’re reading this. Our goal was to ensure that you would find love once more. Genuine affection that is offered freely rather than purchased. Thank you to the person who becomes her family. Please look after our young daughter. She was everything to us.
With love and affection, Mom and Dad
My vision was obscured by tears. Unable to speak, I clutched the letter against my chest.
“Mom?” From the hallway came the drowsy voice of Lila. “What’s happening?”
She was standing there in her pajamas with her favorite blue scarf around her head as I turned around.
I dropped to my knees and spread my arms wide. I hugged her when she bumped into them.
“Your parents loved you so much,” I said in a whisper. They ensured that you would always be looked after.
Mr. Caldwell showed us the house a week later.
It was located on a peaceful street with oak trees overhead, about an hour from the city. The garden had gone wild, with daisies and tulips struggling through the weeds, while the two-story house featured a wraparound porch and white shutters.
Lila stood on the path, her eyes wide as she gazed up at it. “Mom, it looks just like the house I always draw.”
I grinned despite my tears. “Maybe you were remembering it all along.”
The hardwood flooring were illuminated by sunshine streaming in through dirty windows. The scent of memories and old wood filled the air. A framed picture of a young couple carrying a newborn in a yellow blanket was on the mantle.
Lila approached and lightly touched the frame. “They look nice.”
“They were,” I muttered. “And they loved you more than anything.”
She gave me a look. “Do you think they’re happy I found you?”
I drew her in. “I think they’re celebrating.”
I was finally able to provide Lila with the care she required thanks to the bequest. A professional who paid attention. improved choices for treatment. Additionally, there was a bedroom with walls painted the precise lavender color she desired.
Though she remained vulnerable, there was now hope. Actual, palpable hope.
Her blood counts began to rise. She gradually regained her vitality. She began to giggle so loudly that it reverberated off the trees as she ran through the yard, chasing butterflies.
“Improvement. Response,” the doctors began, using words I had been too scared to dream about. window of remission.
She added, “Mom, maybe my first parents picked you for me,” while she colored on the porch one afternoon.
I grinned as I glanced at her. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you arrived just when I needed you to.” “Give her to that lady,” they most likely said to God. She appears to be lonely.
I gave her a strong hug while laughing. “Then I owe them everything.”
The physicians verified it by fall. Remission was in Lila’s case.
The nurse had to get me tissues because I was crying so much. Lila simply gave me a hand pat and remarked, “You see? told you we would prevail.”
That winter, we moved in with her parents. Planting new tulips in the garden—pink and white ones—was Lila’s top priority.
“For both my moms,” she clarified.
We would wrap ourselves in blankets and sit on the porch every night to gaze up at the stars that she cherished. “Do you think they can see us?” she would whisper while resting her head on my shoulder.
I’d say, “I know they can,” “And I think they’re proud.”
Three years have passed.
Lila is thirteen years old, healthy, and energetic. She had a dream about a garden that blossoms all year long. That letter from her parents, framed and treasured, is hanging on the wall of the living room. She lightly brushes it before school every morning.
We affixed glow-in-the-dark stars to her ceiling, and occasionally I walk by her room at night and watch her sleeping. Since she no longer needs it, her blue scarf has been hanging on the chair unattended for months.
I once believed that I had lost my opportunity to become a mother. Life had determined that I wasn’t cut out for it.
Perhaps, though, I was simply waiting for the right kid. Someone who would teach me that biology isn’t the main factor in motherhood. It’s about being present and about love that endures despite adversity.
Lila has two births. Once into my heart, once into this planet. And she was flawless on both occasions.
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