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 interpreted a dying father’s words through an eight-year-old memory.
Maybe David meant literally.
Maybe emotionally.
We would never know.
The coincidence remained.
Of all the children whose profiles Julian and I reviewed.
Of all the approved families Oliver’s team considered.
He had been matched with the estranged sister his father had never managed to contact.
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