Owen is ten now.

He goes tearing across the grass chasing his younger brothers, who shriek with the particular joy of being chased by someone they adore.

The two little girls have set up an elaborate tea party on the patio table and are conducting it with great seriousness.

There are no clipboards in my kitchen anymore.

There are no hearings circled on the calendar.

Last spring, the temporary custody became permanent — a real, final, legally binding adoption — and they carry my last name now, all five of them.