In the weeks that followed, I visited on Saturdays. Daniel called me Uncle Andrés. We built fortresses from cardboard, launched paper rockets, and played shortstop and pitcher in the hallway. He laughed with his whole body, the way children do when they feel safe.
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.
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
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