I still kept the photo from that courthouse morning on my dresser, Austin in his tiny navy sweater while Peter proudly carried him to our car as if he were holding the rarest treasure on earth.

We had always promised each other we would tell Austin the whole truth about his adoption before he was old enough to remember a time of not knowing.

And yet, year after year, we let our own cowardice and comfort convince us that waiting just a bit longer was the safer choice.

When he turned three, Peter insisted he was much too little to understand the idea of two different mothers without getting confused and scared.

When he turned five and started kindergarten, we told ourselves that answering his unavoidable questions about his birth mother would only complicate his first year of school.