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I told him the numbers didn’t add up.
The children’s home was a low brick building off the highway, painted a cheerful color.
A woman met us at the front desk and introduced herself as Denise.
“You must be Harold and Mary. Come on back. I’ll walk you through,” the caregiver said as Harold shook her hand.
I noticed his palm was damp.
A woman met us at the front desk.
Denise led us down a hallway lined with children’s artwork.
Harold didn’t look at it. He was scanning the rooms we passed, his eyes moving quickly, as if he were searching for one specific face.
“How many children are here right now?” I asked.
“Twenty-six,” Denise said. “Ages two to 12. Would you like to start with the younger ones?”
“Yes,” Harold said before I could answer.
Harold didn’t look at it.
We turned into a bright playroom. Kids were scattered on rugs and beanbags. In the far corner, near the window, a little girl sat by herself, drawing.
Harold stopped walking.
“That one,” he said quietly. “Who’s that one?”
Denise looked over. “Oh, that’s our Adele. She’s four. Adele has Down syndrome, and the other kids, well, they can be shy around her. She’s a sweetheart, though.”
A little girl sat by herself.
Harold was already walking toward her. He knelt beside her chair as if he’d done it a hundred times.
“Hi, sweetheart. What are you drawing?”
Adele held up a paper covered in loops of purple crayon. My husband smiled at it as if it were a masterpiece hanging in a museum.
He turned to me from the floor.
“Mary. This is her. This is the one.”
“What are you drawing?”
“Harold,” I kept my voice low. “She’s wonderful, but we just walked in. We haven’t met anybody else.”
“I don’t need to.”
“That isn’t how this works.”
“Honey, please. Adele is the one for us. I can just feel it.”
Denise glanced between us, polite but curious.
I felt heat crawling up my neck. I gave a small, tight smile and told Denise we’d need a minute.
“That isn’t how this works.”
In the hallway, I whispered, “Why her, Harold? Out of every child in this building, why does it have to be her right this second?”
“Because I looked at her and I knew,” he said. “The way you knew with James the second you held him.”
That answer worked on me. I stood there in that hallway, and I built him a story I could live with.
Ray had died suddenly in the spring. He was 44 years old. Harold hadn’t been the same since.
“I looked at her and I knew.”
He’d started taking calls in the garage and saying things like, “What are we even doing all this for?”
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