After years of infertility, we adopted Sam, a lovely three-year-old with ocean-blue eyes. However, when my husband went to bathe Sam, he raced out, crying, “We must return him!” His distress made little sense until I noticed the unusual marking on Sam’s foot.
I never imagined that bringing home our adopted son would unravelĀ the fabric of my marriage.
But, in retrospect, I see that certain gifts are accompanied by grief, and that the universe has a strange sense of timing.
“Are you nervous?” I asked Mark as we drove to the agency.
My hands fidgeted with the small blue jumper I had purchased for Sam, our soon-to-be baby. The fabric felt incredibly smooth against my fingers, and I envisioned his little shoulders filling it fully.
“Me? Nah,” Mark said, although his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Just ready to get this show on the road. Traffic’s making me antsy.”
He drummed his fingers on the dashboard, an anxious tick I’d noticed more recently.
“You’ve checked the car seat three times,” he said with a forced laugh. “Pretty sure you’re the nervous one.”
“Of course I am!” I smoothed the sweater again. “We’ve waited so long for this.”
The adoption process had been difficult, with me handling the majority of the work while Mark focused on his growing business.
As I searchedĀ agency lists for a child, I spent months dealing with countless paperwork, home studies, and interviews. We had hoped to adopt an infant, but the waiting lists were long, so I began looking into other options.
That’s how I came across Sam’s portrait ā a three-year-old youngster with eyes like June skies and a smile that could melt glaciers.
His mother had abandoned him, and something in those eyes spoke right to my heart. Maybe it was the trace of sadness behind his smile, or maybe it was destiny.
“Look at this little guy,” I told Mark one evening, giving him a snapshot from my tablet. The blue glow illuminated his face as he studied it.
He had grinned so gently that I knew he wanted this child just as much as I did. “He looks like a great kid. Those eyes are something else.”
“But could we handle a toddler?”
“Of course we can! No matter how old the kid is, I know you’ll be a great mom.” He squeezed my shoulder as I stared at the picture.
We finished the application procedure and, after what seemed like an eternity, went to the agency to bring Sam home. Ms. Chen, the social worker, took us to a small playroom where Sam was sitting and creating a tower of blocks.
“Sam,” she said softly, “remember the nice couple we talked about? They’re here.”
I kneeled beside him, my heart pounding. “Hi, Sam. I love your tower. May I help?”
He gave me a long look, nodded, and handed me a red block. That small act felt like the start of everything.
The drive home was silent. Sam held the stuffed elephant we had brought him, periodically making little trumpet sounds that made Mark laugh. I kept looking back at him in his car seat, not believing he was real.
At home, I began unloading Sam’s little items. His small duffel seems astonishingly light for carrying a child’s entire world.
“I can give him his bath,” Mark offered, 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 bond straight quickly. “Don’t forget the bath toys I picked up for him.”
They vanished down the corridor, and I hummed as I sorted Sam’s clothing into his new dresser. Each small sock and T-shirt added to the sense of reality. The peace lasted exactly 47 seconds.
“WE MUST RETURN HIM!”
Mark’s outburst struck me like a physical blow.
He burst out of the bathroom as I dashed into the hall. Mark’s face was ghostly white.
“What do you mean, return him?” I strained to keep my voice calm while grasping the doorframe. “We just adopted him! He’s not a sweater from Target!”
Mark paced the corridor, running his hands through his hair, his breathing labored. “I just realized… I can’t do this. I can’t treat him like my own. This was a mistake.”
“Why would you say that?” My voice cracked like thin ice.
“You were excited just hours ago! You were making elephant noises with him in the car!”
“I don’t know; it just hit me. I can’t bond with him.” He refused to look at me, instead glancing over my shoulder. His hands trembled.
“You’re being heartless!” I snapped and pushed past him into the bathroom.
Sam sat in the tub, little and confused, still wearing nothing except his socks and shoes. He clutched his elephant tightly against his chest.
“Hey, buddy,” I murmured, forcing a smile into my voice as my world disintegrated. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Would Mr. Elephant like a bath too?”
Sam shakes his head. “He’s scared of water.”
“That’s okay. He can watch from here.” I placed the item safely on the counter. “Arms up!”
As I helped Sam undress, I observed something that made my heart stop.
Sam has a noticeable birthmark on his left foot. I had seen that exact mark on Mark’s foot before, on countless summer days spent by the pool. The same distinctive curvature, same positioning.
My hands trembled as I bathed Sam, and my thoughts raced.
“You’ve got magic bubbles,” Sam exclaimed, tapping at the foam I hadn’t seen adding to the water.
“They’re extra special bubbles,” I whispered while watching him play. His smile, which had looked so peculiar to him, now echoed my husband’s.
That night, after tucking Sam in his new bed, I approached Mark in our bedroom. The gap between us on the king-size mattress seemed enormous.
“The birthmark on his foot is identical to yours.”
Mark froze in the act of taking off his watch, then contrived a laugh that sounded like cracking glass. “Pure coincidence. Lots of people have birthmarks.”
“I want you to take a DNA test.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, turning away. “You’re letting your imagination run wild. It’s been a stressful day.”
But his reaction revealed everything. The next day, while Mark was at work, I collected a few strands of hair from his brush and sent them for testing, along with a swab from Sam’s cheek during dental brushing. I informed him that we were looking for cavities.
The wait was awful. Mark became increasingly distant, spending more time in the office. Meanwhile, Sam and I became closer.
He began calling me “Mama” within days, and each time he did, my heart filled with love while aching with doubt.
We established a pattern of morning pancakes, bedtime tales, and afternoon visits to the park, where he would collect “treasure” (leaves and intriguing rocks) for his windowsill.
When the results arrived two weeks later, they confirmed my suspicions.
Mark was Sam’s biological father.
I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the paper until the words blurred, while Sam’s laughing echoed from the backyard, where he was playing with his new bubble wand.
“It was one night,” Mark finally confessed when I confronted him with the results. “I was drunk, at a conference. I never knew… I never thought…” He reached for me, his face crumpling. “Please, we can work this out. I’ll do better.”
I moved back, my voice cold. “You knew the moment you saw that birthmark. That’s why you panicked.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, falling into a kitchen chair. “When I saw him in the bath, it all came rushing back. That woman… I never got her name. I was ashamed, I tried to forget…”
“An accident four years ago, while I was going through fertility treatments? Crying every month when they failed?” Each question felt like glass in my throat.
The next morning, I went to see a lawyer, a sharp-eyed woman named Janet, who listened without judgment. She confirmed my hopes: becoming Sam’s legal adopted mother granted me parenting rights. Mark’s previously unknown paternity did not automatically give him custody.
“I’m filing for div:orce,” I told Mark that evening after Sam was asleep. “And I’m seeking full custody of Sam.”
“Amanda, pleaseā”
“His mother already abandoned him and you were ready to do the same,” I cut in. “I won’t let that happen.”
His face crumpled. “I love you.”
“Not enough to come clean. It seems to me that you loved yourself more.”
Mark did not dispute it, thus the divorce was short. Sam adjusted better than I expected, though he occasionally wondered why Daddy didn’t live with us anymore.
“Sometimes grown-ups make mistakes,” I’d tell him, stroking his hair. “But it doesn’t mean they don’t love you.” It was the kindest truth I could offer.
Years have passed since then, and Sam has matured into an exceptional young man. Mark sends birthday cards and sometimes emails but maintains a distance ā his choice, not mine.
People have asked me if I regret not walking away when I learned the truth. I constantly shake my head.
Sam was no longer merely an adoptive child; he was my son, regardless of biology or betrayal. Love isn’t always simple, but it’s always an option. I promised to never give him up, except to his future fiancĆ©e, of course.
