The orphanage director took her hand and looked straight into her very blue eyes. “We think you should take him, not her. He needs you more. That’s what truly matters. Don’t you agree?”
She was incredulous, silently hysterical. She’d come all this way for that girl, the one playing by the window. Her picture had been on the refrigerator for months, anchored by a magnet from the adoption agency. They’d been told that once the orphan’s picture goes on the fridge, it’s a done deal, the child becomes part of your family. Everyone mills around making dinner, talking about their day, and there’s the to-be adopted child’s picture on the fridge, being present, being accounted for. And now it wouldn’t be true.
Everything was pink. Nothing was blue. They had a name and dresses, friends with little girls who promised play dates; life was laid out for them with their…
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