I reached over to the pen holder on her desk and took out a pen.

“I am her uncle,” I said.

“Her only blood relative who is standing in a position to take her, along with my brother, who is on his way.

And I am taking my niece home, through every proper channel there is.

So please tell me what I need to sign to begin.” She looked at me for a long moment, and then something in her professional caution softened into something else, something that looked almost like relief, the visible unclenching of a person who has watched a child be turned away twenty times and is finally, at last, watching someone step toward her instead.

I have often wondered what those fourteen months were like for the people who worked at that facility, the nurses and social workers who cared for Maya day after day while family after family looked at her and left.