Then a week.
No call.
I contacted everyone I could think of.
His family.
Friends.
Former coworkers.
No one knew where he was.
Or no one admitted it.
Child services became involved.
There were interviews.
Background checks.
Temporary placement papers.
I bought a small bed and moved into the living room so Noah could have the bedroom.
He woke screaming most nights.
“Mommy!”
Sometimes:
“Daddy!”
I learned there is no useful answer when a four-year-old asks why his father has not returned.
So I stopped trying to explain.
I simply stayed.
At six in the morning, I made cereal.
At seven, I found missing shoes.
At night, I read the same picture book twenty times.
When Noah got sick, I stayed home.
When he cried, I sat beside him.
When he stopped asking about Adrian every morning, that felt like relief and tragedy at the same time.
The adoption process took almost a year.
I thought Adrian would appear when legal notices started.
He didn’t.
His parental rights were eventually addressed through the courts.
My attorney gave me a discount I could barely afford anyway.
The day the adoption was finalized, Noah was five.
He wore a tiny blue tie.
Afterward we ate cheeseburgers because that was what he requested.
He called me Ethan then.
Not Dad.
That changed gradually.
The first time happened after he split his chin on the corner of the coffee table.
Blood everywhere.
He was six.
I was trying not to panic because children can smell panic like dogs smell fear.
I wrapped a towel around his chin and carried him toward the car.
He grabbed my shirt.
“Dad, it hurts.”
