“Final and irrevocable” were the words she used. Closed doors. An end. That chance was gone.

At last.

I was nauseous that morning eight years ago. Perhaps a combination of vitamins with a powerful antibiotic on an empty stomach? Perhaps the jitters anyone might feel, under the circumstances. I wanted to throw up. I made no less than three trips to the water fountain, breathing deep, taking long steps, trying to calm down.

And then the clerk called us forward–Taylor, Anne, and Macie. We stood there, before the judge’s bench, and affirmed our names.

Macie was snuggly, not least of all because of the time change and the long day of travel the day prior. I was holding her, and she had her bink in, laying her head on my shoulder.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on here, Little Girl?” the judge asked her. Macie said nothing but tucked her head deeper into my shoulder. Her fingers found the hem of my shirt–she knew something was going on, but didn’t seem quite sure what, exactly.

“From this day forward,” the judge began, and she read the adoption decree. The few sentences that made it so our daughter was completely ours. This decree is final and irrevocable. It was finished.

leave a reply