Chapter 13
Tobin began asking about Leah more as he grew.
Not because Jessamine awakened adoption anxiety permanently.
Because children develop.
At seven:
“Did she look like me?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know you?”
“Yes.”
“Did she want you to be my dad?”
Hard.
Leah died without choosing me specifically.
I could lie beautifully.
Didn’t.
“She knew me. She didn’t know what would happen.”
He stared.
“So you just picked me?”
I smiled.
“More like we kept seeing each other until it became obvious.”
He liked that.
“Did you save me?”
“No.”
Important.
“Then what?”
“We became family.”
Less heroic.
More true.
Adults love rescue narratives around adoption.
They make the adult central.
Tobin’s life was not a sad hallway until I arrived.
He had Leah.
Caretakers.
Memories.
Then me.
Additions and losses.
Not one savior.
Jessamine’s cruelty had been partly built on the rescue story too.
You were saved.
May you like
Therefore be grateful.
I stopped using the word entirely.
