When the Eight-Year-Old Boy We Were Adopting Came Home With Everything He Owned in a Black Bag—Then My Missing Brother’s Watch Fell Onto His Bed
He had Sarah’s family too.
Foster parents he remembered.
Teachers.
A therapist.
A social worker who had fought for him.
People from before us.
Adoption did not give Julian and me permission to rewrite the road that led to our home.
It made us responsible for carrying it honestly.
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