Part 2: The Name My Real Mother Gave Me

Laura’s house was small, with a front porch, a slightly crooked mailbox, and a little American flag tucked into a planter by the steps. Her cat, Waffles, disliked me for three days before deciding my feet were the perfect place to sleep, and slowly that modest house became the first place where I understood what feeling safe actually meant.

Laura organized her life around everything my treatment required, setting alarms for my medication, covering the refrigerator with appointment cards, and driving me to chemotherapy even when winter ice covered the roads. When I was strong enough to return to school, she drove me there too, and unlike the people who had abandoned me, she never treated caring for me as an expense she regretted.

She never called me average. She called me stubborn when I refused to drink enough water and brilliant when I passed algebra after missing nearly half the semester, and even when I rolled my eyes at being called “kiddo,” there was a part of me that secretly loved hearing it.

The adoption process took time because there were hearings, home visits, medical reports, school records, and endless paperwork to complete. For months, I was afraid to unpack everything because experience had taught me that adults could decide without warning that keeping me was no longer convenient, but Laura continued showing up through every stage of the process.