I learned that someone had left a newborn in the Baby Safe Haven near the maternity wing of St. Marys Hospital in Oxford. The news struck a chord, as it had only been three months since I lost my husband.
The loss was raw, but as I read about the abandoned child, something in me shifted. I resolved to adopt that babya child left behind by its parents, much like how I had felt, left to confront the emptiness life sometimes hands us. I threw myself into gathering the right paperwork, determined not to let bureaucracy slow me. It wasn’t easy; various officials came to inspect my home, questioning, probing into whether my world could nurture a fragile life. Their final report deemed me a suitable mother, and just a handful of days later, my son was placed into my arms.
I loved him as fiercely as if he were my own flesh and blood. I named him after my late husband, Jack. To say his name aloud in our home again filled me with a bittersweet joya strange comfort I didnt expect to find. As the years passed, Jack grew curious, asking about siblings with a longing in his eyes.
It didnt trouble me in the least. My job let me work remotely, managing everything from my laptopa setup that fit our lives perfectly. Thats why, when the agency called to say there was another child in need, I was ready. The day I returned home, stepping into the nursery where the social worker guided me, I was introduced to a tiny girlbarely three days oldsleeping peacefully. The instant I laid eyes on her, love surged through me. She belonged with us. Thanks to my previous experience, the legal hoops and health checks went faster than Id dared hope.
Now my family is three: myself, Jack, and little Emily. I can honestly say we are the happiest people in England.
