“I want to adopt them,” I said, pacing my kitchen. “Both of them. I know it’s crazy. Tell me it’s crazy.”
“It’s not crazy,” Raymond said without a beat of hesitation.
“Ray, I’m a divorced woman with a home office and a diagnosis that says I can’t carry a child. What judge is going to hand me two babies?”
“The right one,” he said. “Let me help you with the paperwork.”
My best friend came over that weekend with a stack of legal pads and a bag of takeout. He sat across from me at my kitchen table and helped me draft every answer.
“You’re going to fumble this question about your support system,” he said, tapping a line. “Put me down. Aunt, uncle, whatever you want to call it. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You barely date, Ray. Don’t you want your own life?”
He’d only smiled and replied, “This is my life.”
I laughed it off at the time.
But Raymond literally drove me to every court date. He sat beside me in the hallway outside the judge’s chambers, holding my hand when my knee wouldn’t stop bouncing.
Months later, Judge Marsh looked up from the papers, and I’ll never forget the softness in her voice.
“They’re yours, Kim. Congratulations.”
I named them Caleb and Noah and cried the whole drive home.
The years didn’t ask permission before flying by.
Caleb learned to walk first, but Noah was the one who wouldn’t stop climbing furniture. Christmas mornings turned into a blur of wrapping paper and hot chocolate.
