She looked at me quietly for a moment. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Lila,” she said softly.
Mrs. Patterson joined us and explained that Lila had been at the shelter for about a year, moving between foster homes before that. When her illness returned, the families had been unable to care for her. Lila was battling leukemia — diagnosed at age five, she had gone into remission, but the cancer had returned last spring. She was stable, but needed ongoing treatment, which was a heavy burden for most families. I turned back to Lila, who was quietly humming as she colored her imaginary house. Then I heard her small voice ask the question that broke my heart: “Do you think anyone would want me? Even if I get sick again?”
Gently, I brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and whispered, “Sweetheart, I think someone already does.” The process of adoption took weeks — background checks, home visits, endless interviews — but finally, on a bright Thursday morning, Lila became mine. Her first night in her new home, she stood hesitantly in the doorway of her bedroom, clutching a small backpack containing everything she owned.
“This is really mine?” she whispered.
“All yours, sweetheart,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “For as long as you want it.”
She didn’t want to sleep alone that night, so I sat beside her bed, holding her hand until her breathing slowed and her grip softened. A few nights later, I heard her crying softly around midnight. When I went to her room, she looked at me with those big brown eyes and whispered, “Mom?” I froze — she had never called me that before.
“Yes, sweetheart,” I replied, my voice breaking. “I’m right here.”
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