“I am sending over a file. It is a little boy with a few medical needs. You and your husband take a few days to think about it and let me know.”
I wasn’t ready for that email. Well… maybe I was. My heart had been aching for the ‘You’ve Been Matched’ notification for so long. But the timing? Not ideal. I was in the middle of Waffle House, meeting my husband and our two boys for breakfast, still sweaty from an early workout. Snow had blanketed our little North Carolina town the night before, shutting everything down. Our town reacts dramatically to even a dusting of white stuff. I had imagined the moment so differently: home, cooking dinner together, giggling with the boys, emails pinging simultaneously, exchanging that look that said, “This is it.” But life had its own plan, and somehow, in that small, chaotic breakfast, the moment was perfectly ours. Unexpected. Unconventional. Perfect in its own way.
I gave my husband the look when the email arrived. He didn’t need words—he knew exactly what my giddy, raised eyebrows meant. We waited until we got home to open the file. His file was dense with medical details, developmental milestones, and jargon so cryptic even Google Translate surrendered. Being in the medical field, I went to work immediately. I sent his file to trusted friends, colleagues, and mentors to help me see our boy beyond the lines of need. We met with medical teams who prepared us for surgeries and interventions, but it was his surgeon who shifted our perspective. She spoke of him simply as our son. Gentle, kind, human. She gave me permission to fall in love with the little face in a single picture—the only glimpse I would have until I could hold him. His eyes, full of hope, already told a story only he could know.
Before the long wait began, we snuck away for a weekend getaway to share the news with our older boys. We showed them his picture, and as only children can, they bypassed any differences and saw pure sweetness and tiny vulnerability. “When can we go get him?” “Does he know he has two older brothers yet?” “Does he know we love him already?” “Does he like Chick-fil-A?”—the most pressing question of all, of course.
Two long months passed before we could pack our bags and travel halfway across the world. Those sixty days were precious. We soaked in our family of four, planned endlessly, attended meetings, and checked every item on what felt like a never-ending list. When the day finally came, I couldn’t get there fast enough. We spent three days touring China, marveling at the beauty, the history, the culture. But I could hardly focus. Some twelve hours from Beijing, our tiny boy was preparing to leave everything familiar behind. My heart was full of elation, tempered by a quiet, bittersweet grief for the little one I was about to meet.
And then it happened. The moment I held him. The floodgates opened. All the paperwork, all the waiting, all the preparation—everything had led to this single, breathtaking instant. He was perfect. But in that same moment, his first chapter ended. I thought of his first mommy and daddy, of the love and sacrifice that brought him to me. I wept for them, silently promising to honor their dedication. I kissed his tiny forehead, whispering that I would love him fiercely, that I would carry the torch they lit. Their presence would forever live in him—in his laughter, his spirit, his DNA. “Is that from you, first mommy?” I wondered. Because his laugh was pure, unfiltered, and full of life.
We immersed ourselves in every bit of China we could, soaking in the people, the traditions, the vibrant culture. But home called, and with it, a new rhythm began. Appointments, measurements, feedings, therapies, surgical consults, ultrasounds, lab work—it became our new normal. The big boys were extraordinary, stepping into their roles as older brothers without hesitation. They learned safe feedings, snuggled to comfort during needle pokes, and lightened heavy days with perfectly timed humor. They were there after the first major surgery, holding the key to his first earned smile.
It wasn’t long before we noticed signs of hearing loss. “This is typical for some of his medical conditions,” doctors said. “We’ll monitor it.” But we knew—he wasn’t responding to his name, couldn’t find us from another room, didn’t turn without knowing we were close. When we met with his surgeon again, she confirmed it in her gentle, reassuring way: he would need hearing aids indefinitely to optimize his ability to hear.
The day he received his first aid is etched in my mind. Witnessing a child fully grasp a new function is both humbling and magical. We had already missed so much of his little life, yet in that moment, he finally heard me say, “I love you,” and his dad, “You are special.” He could hear his brothers marvel at his personality, the joy he brought into our lives. It was overwhelming in the best possible way.
We never miss a chance to celebrate, to affirm, to love out loud. The torch of love that was first lit by parents we may never meet continues to burn, carried forward by us. The story that began long before us is now ours to continue. And yes, in case you’re wondering… he absolutely loves Chick-fil-A.
