“She’s perfect,” Lila whispered, holding the tiny screaming thing against her chest. “Look at her, Anna. She’s beautiful.”
Miranda had dark hair and Lila’s exact nose. She was beautiful in a wrinkled, angry newborn way.
“We did well,” Lila said through tears.
For five years, we made it work. Lila got a better job doing medical billing. I picked up extra shifts whenever Miranda needed new shoes or had a birthday coming up.
We figured out how to be a family… the three of us against a world that never promised us anything.
Miranda called me “Aunt Anna” and climbed into my lap during movie nights. She’d fall asleep on my shoulder, drooling on my shirt, and I’d carry her to bed thinking this was probably what happiness felt like.
Then, that fateful day came.
Lila was driving to work when a delivery truck ran a red light. The impact killed her instantly. The officer who told me said, “She didn’t suffer,” like that was supposed to help.
Miranda was five years old. She kept asking when her mommy was coming back.
“She’s not, sweetheart,” I’d say, and she’d ask again 20 minutes later.
Social services came three days after we buried Lila. A woman with a clipboard sat across from me at our kitchen table.
“There’s no one willing or able to take custody of Miranda.”
“What happens to her?”
“She’ll enter the foster system…”
“No.” The word came out harder than I meant it to. “She’s not going into the system.”
“Are you related to the child?”
“I’m her godmother.”
“That’s not a legal designation.”
“Then make it legal.” I leaned forward. “I’ll adopt her. Whatever paperwork you need, I’ll sign it. She’s not going into foster care.”
The woman studied me. “This is a permanent commitment.”
I thought about every night Lila and I had been scared and alone. About the kind of childhood I’d sworn no kid of ours would ever have.
“I understand.”
It took six months for the adoption to be finalized. Six months of home visits, background checks, parenting classes, and Miranda asking me every single day if I was going to leave her too.
“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” I promised. “You’re stuck with me.”
She was six years old when the judge signed the papers. I sat her down that night and explained it as simply as I could.
“You know I’m not your birth mom, right?”
She nodded, playing with the edge of her blanket.
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
