We adopted Sam, a charming 3-year-old with ocean-blue eyes, after years of infertility. However, my husband shouted, “We must return him!” as he raced out to bathe Sam. Until I noticed the unique marking on Sam’s foot, his distress made no sense.
I never thought that my marriage would fall apart when I brought home our adoptive son. However, in retrospect, I see that the universe occasionally has a warped sense of timing, and that certain blessings are accompanied by grief.
“Are you nervous?” As we drove to the agency, I questioned Mark.
I was fidgeting with the small blue jumper I had purchased for our soon-to-be son, Sam. I pictured his tiny shoulders filling the fabric, which felt unbelievably soft under my fingers.
“Me? Mark’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel,” but he said, “No.” “I’m just eager to start this show. I’m becoming restless from the traffic.”
With a nervous tick that I’d noticed more often lately, he drummed his fingers on the dash.
He said, “You’ve checked the car seat three times,” with a stifled laugh. “Pretty sure you’re the nervous one.”
“Of course I am!” Once more, I smoothed the sweater. “We’ve waited so long for this.”
I had primarily managed the difficult adoption process while Mark concentrated on growing his company.
I had been searching agency lists for a child for months, and the never-ending paperwork, home studies, and interviews had taken up all of my time. We had originally intended to adopt a baby, but I began looking into other options because the waiting lists were so long.
That’s how I came across the picture of Sam, a three-year-old youngster with a smile that could melt glaciers and eyes like June skies.
There was something in those eyes that spoke straight to my heart: his mother had abandoned him. It might have been fate or the tinge of melancholy in his smile.
“Look at this little guy,” I exclaimed to Mark one night while displaying the picture on my tablet. With the blue glow illuminating his face, he examined it.
His smile was so gentle that I could tell he shared my desire for this youngster. “He appears to be a wonderful child. Those eyes are truly remarkable.”
“But could we handle a toddler?”
“We certainly can! I have no doubt that you will be an excellent mother, regardless of the child’s age. I glanced at the photo while he squeezed my shoulder.”
After what seemed like an eternity, we went to the agency to bring Sam home after completing the application procedure. Ms. Chen, the social worker, showed us a tiny playroom where Sam was sitting and constructing a block tower.
“Sam,” she murmured, “do you recall the pleasant couple we discussed? They’re present.”
My heart thudded as I kneeled next to him. “Hello, Sam. I adore your tower. Could I be of assistance?”
After giving me a lengthy look, he nodded and gave me a red block. It seemed like the start of everything with that small gesture.
It was a calm drive home. We brought Sam a stuffed elephant, which he held tightly while periodically making tiny trumpet noises that made Mark laugh. I could barely believe he was real as I kept looking back at him in his car seat.
I began unloading Sam’s few possessions at home. It seemed impossible that his little duffel could hold a child’s entire universe.
Mark said, “I can give him his bath,” from the door. “Give you a chance to set up his room exactly how you want it.”
“Great idea!” I smiled, thinking how great it was that Mark wanted to connect with me immediately. “Don’t forget the bath toys I picked up for him.”
I hummed as I put Sam’s clothing in his new dresser after they vanished down the hall. This felt more authentic with each small sock and T-shirt. For precisely forty-seven seconds, there was silence.
“WE MUST RETURN HIM!”
Mark’s yell struck me like a blow to the body.
As I hurried into the hallway, he exploded from the restroom. Mark had a ghostly white face.
“What do you mean, return him?” I gripped the doorframe and tried to maintain a steady voice. “We just adopted him! He’s not a Target sweater.”
Mark’s breathing was labored as he paced the corridor while raking his hands through his hair. “I just realized that I’m not capable of doing this. I cannot treat him as I would myself. This was an error.”
“Why would you say that?” My voice broke like a piece of brittle ice.
“Just a few hours ago, you were thrilled! In the car, you were making elephant noises with him.”
“It just struck me; I’m not sure. I’m unable to connect with him. Instead of looking into my eyes, he would look at something over my shoulder. His hands shook.”
“You’re being heartless!” I pushed past him into the restroom and snapped.
Sam, who was still only wearing his shoes and socks, sat in the tub looking little and bewildered. His elephant was tightly clasped against his breast.
“Hey, buddy,” I responded, trying to sound upbeat as my entire world fell apart. “All right, let’s clean you up. Does Mr. Elephant want to take a bath as well?”
Sam gave a headshake. “He’s scared of water.”
“That’s alright.” He can observe from this location. I placed the item on the counter safely. “Arms up!”
Something stopped me cold as I assisted Sam in taking off his clothes.
Sam’s left foot has a noticeable birthmark. It was the same mark I had seen on Mark’s foot on countless poolside summer days. The same positioning, the same distinctive curvature.
As I washed Sam, my hands shook and my thoughts were racing.
Sam exclaimed, “You’ve got magic bubbles,” as he prodded the foam that I had hardly noticed was added to the water.
I whispered, “They’re extra special bubbles,” as I observed him playing. His formerly distinctive smile now had echoes of my husband’s.
I approached Mark in our bedroom that night after putting Sam in his new bed. On the king-size mattress, the space between us seemed to go on forever.
“The birthmark on his foot is identical to yours.”
Mark paused as he took off his watch, then he forced a laugh that sounded like glass shattering. “Just a coincidence. Many people are born with birthmarks.”
“I want you to take a DNA test.”
He snarled, “Don’t be ridiculous,” and turned away. “Your imagination is running wild. The day has been tense.”
But I could tell everything from his response. The following day, while Mark was at work, I collected a swab from Sam’s cheek during tooth-brushing time and sent it for testing, along with a few hairs from his brush. I informed him that we were doing a cavity check.
It was painful to wait. Mark spent more time at the office and became more aloof. Sam and I, meanwhile, became closer.
In a matter of days, he began referring to me as “Mama,” and every time he did, my heart grew with love despite the pain from uncertainty.
We established a schedule that included pancakes in the morning, books before bed, and afternoon strolls to the park, where he would gather “treasure” (interesting rocks and leaves) for his windowsill.
Two weeks later, I received the results, which supported my suspicions. Sam’s biological father was Mark. Sam’s laughter drifted in from the backyard as he played with his new bubble wand while I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the paper until the words became hazy.
Mark eventually admitted, “It was one night,” when I asked him about the outcome. “I attended a conference while intoxicated. I had no idea… I never considered… His expression crumpled as he reached for me. “We can figure this out, please. I’ll perform better.”
I took a step back and spoke in a chilly tone. “As soon as you saw that birthmark, you knew. That’s why you became alarmed.”
He said, “I’m sorry,” as he sank onto a kitchen chair. “Everything came flooding back when I saw him in the bathtub. I never knew the name of that woman. I made an effort to forget because I felt ashamed.”
“I was undergoing fertility treatments when I had an accident four years ago? Weeping each month when they didn’t succeed? My throat felt like glass every time I asked a question.”
I went to see a lawyer the following morning, Janet, a perceptive woman who listened to me without passing judgment. She validated my hope that I would have parental rights as Sam’s legal adoptive mother. Mark was not immediately granted custody because his paternity was previously uncertain.
That night, after Sam had gone to sleep, I told Mark, “I’m filing for divorce.” “And I’m seeking full custody of Sam.”
“Amanda, please—”
“His mother already abandoned him and you were ready to do the same,” I replied. “I won’t let that happen.”
His face twisted. “I love you.”
“Not enough to reveal the truth. You seemed to love yourself more, in my opinion.”
Since Mark didn’t object, the divorce process moved quickly. Although he occasionally questioned why Daddy no longer lived with us, Sam adjusted better than I had anticipated.
“Sometimes grown-ups make mistakes,” I would say while gently petting his hair. “But it doesn’t mean they don’t love you.” It was the most compassionate truth I could provide.
Since then, Sam has developed into an exceptional young man. Mark occasionally emails and sends birthday cards, but he stays away—that’s his decision, not mine.
Sometimes people ask me if I regret not leaving after learning the truth. Every time, I shake my head.
Sam was no longer merely an adoptive child; biology and treachery be damned, he was now my son. Love is always a decision, but it’s not always easy. With the exception of his eventual fiancée, of course, I pledged never to give him up.
