“Do I have to leave tomorrow?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“What about next week?”
“Not unless we find somewhere better for you.”
He thought about that.
Then he asked the question that broke my heart.
“Can I stay until somebody wants me?”
I sat on the edge of his bed.
“David, you don’t have to earn a place in this house.”
He looked at me for a long time.
Then he turned toward the wall and cried quietly.
I stayed beside him until he fell asleep.
Three months later, the county asked whether I would consider becoming his permanent foster mother.
I said yes.
A year later, after all the paperwork and court hearings, I adopted him.
I was twenty-five years old.
And for the first time in my life, someone called me Mama.
Not because I had given birth.
Not because I had married somebody.
But because a little boy who had been passed from one place to another finally had somewhere to belong.
David was the beginning.
Michael came three years later.
His mother had died, and his father was serving time in prison. He was eight years old and had a habit of sleeping with his shoes on because he was afraid somebody would take him somewhere while he slept.
Rebecca came after that.
She was nine when she arrived, angry at the world and convinced every adult eventually left.
Samuel was only four.
And Thomas, my youngest, was three when he came into my life.
Five children.
Five different stories.
Five little hearts that needed somewhere safe to land.
I didn’t have a perfect house.
I didn’t have much money.
But I had a kitchen table, a refrigerator full of groceries, and a heart that had learned how much love could fit inside it.
I worked long hours.
I drove the school bus in the mornings and afternoons. I picked up extra work during the summer. Ernestine helped me with the children whenever she could.
There were nights I cried because I couldn’t afford new shoes for everybody.
There were Christmas mornings when the presents were small.
But there was always food.
There were always birthday cakes.
And nobody ever had to wonder whether they were wanted.
Back in the VFW hall, Garland was still staring at me.
“You adopted all five?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
I nodded.
Bonnie folded her arms.
“That’s very generous, I suppose.”
I looked at her.
“Generous?”
She smiled awkwardly.
“Well, taking in children who aren’t yours…”
David put down his glass.
“Ma’am, she didn’t take us in because she felt sorry for us.”
Bonnie turned toward him.
“Excuse me?”
David kept his voice calm.
“She became our mother because she loved us. There’s a difference.”
Michael nodded.
“She was there when I broke my arm. She was there when I graduated. She was there when I got married. She was there when my first child was born.”
Rebecca added, “She sat beside me in the hospital for three nights when I had surgery. She didn’t go home once.”
Samuel smiled.
“She also embarrassed me at my high school graduation by cheering louder than everybody else.”
That earned a laugh.
Even I laughed.
Thomas leaned over and kissed my forehead.
“And she still calls me every Sunday to ask whether I’ve eaten.”
“Because you never answer the first time,” I said.
The children laughed again.
For a moment, the room felt warm.
It felt like home.
Then Garland asked something that made the laughter disappear.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
I looked at him.
“Tell you what?”
“That you had children.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes a person can say something so ridiculous that your mind doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Garland, you left me forty-two years ago.”
“I know.”
“You never called.”
“I know.”
“You never asked how I was doing.”
He looked down.
“I know, Della.”
“So why would I have told you?”
He didn’t answer.
I took a sip of water.
“You had your life. I had mine.”
Bonnie stepped closer to him.
“Garland, perhaps we should get back to the birthday program.”
He didn’t move.
Instead, he kept looking at me.
“Are you happy, Della?”
That question surprised me.
I thought about the little house where I’d raised five children.
The broken washing machine.
The school concerts.
The graduations.
The first apartments.
The weddings.
The grandchildren who climbed into my bed during thunderstorms.
The Sunday dinners when everyone talked at once.
The Christmas stockings I still counted every year.
Then I looked at him.
“Yes, Garland. I am.”
He nodded slowly.
“Good.”
It was the first kind thing he’d said to me in forty-two years.
And somehow, it was also the saddest.
The birthday celebration continued, but something had changed.
People no longer looked at me like an unwanted guest.
Several came over to introduce themselves.
One elderly woman told me she remembered me from my bus-driving days.
