She weighed the moment, then nodded. “I think he would like that very much.”
We hugged for a long time. The past felt less like a wound and more like a scar, the kind you can touch without breaking.
Weekends, Cardboard Castles, and a New Kind of Family
Althea watched us from the kitchen doorway with that quiet smile. Later, after bedtime, we would talk at the table about the small things that build a life. We laughed about our young mistakes. Our old love did not spring back like a snapped branch. It unfolded like a careful map. We learned a new route together.
One afternoon, while we were working on a castle of blocks, Daniel looked up and asked, “Uncle, why do you and Mom live in different houses?”
I stalled, then chose honesty he could hold. “Sometimes people who care for each other need a little time to understand what really matters.”
He considered this and said, “Then learn quickly, so you can be together.”
I met Althea’s eyes across the room. She smiled with tears that did not fall.
Visits turned into dinners. Dinners turned into short trips to the park and the museum. The three of us fit together in a way that felt both new and deeply known. Our family was not perfect. It was real.
Adoption, Co-Parenting, and the Grace of Small Steps
Adoption is a love story that takes courage. It is also a daily practice that builds trust through breakfast, baths, bandages, and bedtime stories. Co-parenting, even when it begins as friendship, is careful work. You take small steps. You keep your promises. You show up on time. You learn that children do not need perfect plans. They need consistent people.
We set simple routines. I picked Daniel up for Saturday soccer and Sunday pancakes. I learned the art of packing snacks that do not end up all over the car. I kept a drawer at Althea’s place with spare shirts and a toolkit for wobbly furniture and toy repairs. We wrote down schedules and stayed kind when schedules changed. We spoke to each other with respect, especially when we were tired.
