Chapter 14 - The Question I Feared
Thomas and I dated for almost a year before he asked about children.
We were cooking dinner at my house.
No candles.
No dramatic music.
Just pasta boiling over because neither of us was paying attention.
“Do you still want kids?” he asked.
I froze.
He immediately noticed.
“We don't have to talk about it.”
“No.”
I turned off the burner.
“We should.”
We sat at the kitchen table.
I told him everything.
The treatments.
The failures.
The grief.
The way Lukas's family had used my longing against me.
Thomas listened.
When I finished, he said, “I don't need an answer tonight.”
“I don't know if I can have biological children.”
“I know.”
“I don't know if I want to try IVF again.”
“Okay.”
“I might want to adopt someday.”
“Okay.”
“I might decide I don't want any of it.”
“Okay.”
I frowned.
“Do you have another word?”
He smiled.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“You.”
I stared at him.
“I want you. We can make decisions about everything else together.”
Tears came before I could stop them.
Not because his answer was perfect.
Because it contained no pressure.
No transaction.
No assumption that my value depended on motherhood.
Months later, I began volunteering with a local literacy program.
That was where I met Maya.
She was eight.
Sharp, funny, suspicious of adults and obsessed with astronomy.
Her foster mother brought her every Thursday.
I helped with reading.
Nothing more.
Over time, Maya began waiting for me.
“Do you know why stars don't fall?” she asked once.
“I suspect you're about to tell me.”
“Gravity.”
“Then why ask?”
“To see if you knew.”
I laughed.
Our relationship remained simple.
Tutor and student.
Then circumstances in Maya's life changed.
Her foster placement was ending.
The agency was searching for another family.
I went home shaken.
Thomas noticed.
“You're thinking about her.”
“Yes.”
“Careful.”
“I know.”
We spoke for weeks.
With professionals.
With each other.
With people who understood foster care far better than we did.
Nobody promised a fairy tale.
Children are not cures for adult grief.
Adoption is not a consolation prize for infertility.
And loving Maya would never erase what she had already lost.
That mattered.
Eventually, we made inquiries.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The process began.
One evening, I received a call from the caseworker.
“Maya asked whether you were interested in becoming a permanent resource for her.”
I sat down.
Thomas took my hand.
“What did you tell her?” I asked.
“That adults need time to make important decisions.”
“Good.”
“And that she gets a voice too.”
My eyes filled.
After everything that had happened, those words felt sacred.
She gets a voice too.
So did I.
May you like
And whatever happened next, nobody was going to make either of us become a family.
We would choose it.
