After years of trying to have a baby with no success, my husband Mark and I decided to adopt. We were overjoyed when we found Sam, a sweet three-year-old with big, ocean-blue eyes. The moment I saw his photo at the agency, I knew he was meant to be ours. But I never expected that bringing him home would change everything.
The morning we went to pick him up, my hands were shaking. I kept smoothing the tiny blue sweater I had bought for him, imagining his little shoulders filling it out.
“Are you nervous?” I asked Mark as he drove, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.
“Me? Nah,” he said quickly. “Just ready to get this show on the road.”
I wasn’t convinced. He kept drumming his fingers on the dashboard, a nervous habit I’d noticed more lately.
“You’ve checked the car seat three times,” he added with a small laugh. “I think you’re the nervous one.”
“Of course I am! We’ve waited so long for this.” I sighed. The adoption process had been exhausting, full of endless paperwork, interviews, and waiting. So much waiting. We originally wanted an infant, but the waiting list was too long. Then, I saw Sam’s picture.
“Look at this little guy,” I had said to Mark one evening, showing him the screen of my tablet. Sam’s smile was warm, but there was sadness behind it, something that spoke straight to my heart.
Mark had smiled too. “He’s got something special. Those eyes…” he murmured.
We completed the adoption process, and finally, the day arrived. When we walked into the agency’s playroom, Sam was stacking blocks quietly. The social worker, Ms. Chen, crouched beside him.
“Sam, remember the nice couple we talked about? They’re here.”
I knelt beside him, my heart pounding. “Hi, Sam. I love your tower. May I help?”
He studied me, his blue eyes full of curiosity. Then, without a word, he handed me a red block. That small moment felt like the beginning of everything.
The drive home was quiet. Sam clutched a stuffed elephant we had brought for him, occasionally making tiny trumpet noises that made Mark chuckle. I kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror, barely believing he was ours.
When we got home, I began unpacking his small bag. It held so little—a couple of shirts, a tiny pair of shoes, a blanket. It hit me how much he had lost at such a young age.
Mark stood in the doorway. “I can give him a bath while you set up his room.”
I smiled. “That sounds great. Don’t forget the bath toys.”
I barely had time to start organizing his clothes when I heard Mark’s voice boom through the house.
“WE MUST RETURN HIM!”
The words hit me like a punch. I ran into the hallway and saw Mark standing there, pale as a ghost, his hands gripping his hair.
“What do you mean, return him?” My voice shook. “He’s not a sweater from Target!”
“I just— I can’t do this! I can’t bond with him. This was a mistake.” He looked panicked, wild almost, like a trapped animal.
“You were just laughing with him in the car!” I shot back, my mind racing. “What changed?”
Mark shook his head and wouldn’t meet my eyes. I pushed past him into the bathroom. Sam was sitting in the tub, fully clothed except for his socks and shoes, clutching his stuffed elephant like a lifeline.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, forcing a smile. “Would Mr. Elephant like a bath too?”
Sam shook his head. “He’s scared of water.”
“That’s okay, he can watch. Arms up!”
As I helped him undress, my breath caught in my throat. There, on his tiny left foot, was a birthmark—distinct, curved, unmistakable.
I had seen that birthmark before. On Mark.
A memory flashed in my mind: Mark’s foot resting on a lounge chair by the pool. The same shape. The same placement.
My hands trembled as I finished washing Sam. That night, after tucking him into bed, I confronted Mark in our bedroom. The space between us felt massive.
“The birthmark on Sam’s foot is identical to yours.”
Mark froze, his watch halfway off his wrist. “That’s ridiculous. Birthmarks aren’t unique.”
“I want a DNA test.”
Mark’s face turned to stone. “You’re being paranoid. It’s been a long day.”
His reaction said everything. The next morning, I took a few strands of his hair from his brush and collected a cheek swab from Sam when brushing his teeth.
“Is this for cavities?” Sam asked.
“Something like that,” I whispered.
The wait was unbearable. Mark worked late more often, while Sam and I grew closer. He started calling me “Mama” within a few days, and each time, my heart swelled with love even as it ached with uncertainty.
Two weeks later, the results arrived. Mark was Sam’s biological father.
I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the paper until the words blurred. Outside, Sam played with bubbles, his laughter floating through the window.
That night, I confronted Mark. He sagged into a chair, rubbing his face. “It was one night,” he admitted. “A conference. I was drunk. I never knew… I never thought…” He swallowed hard. “I was ashamed. I tried to forget.”
“So, while I was crying over failed fertility treatments, you were out having a one-night stand?” My voice was barely a whisper, thick with betrayal.
He looked shattered. “Please, we can fix this. I’ll do better.”
I stepped back. “You knew the moment you saw his birthmark. That’s why you panicked.”
The next morning, I visited a lawyer. “Being Sam’s legal adoptive mother gives you parental rights,” she assured me. “His biological connection to Mark doesn’t override that.”
That night, after Sam was asleep, I told Mark, “I’m filing for divorce. And I’m seeking full custody of Sam.”
“Amanda, please—”
“You were ready to abandon him. I won’t let that happen again.”
Mark didn’t fight it. The divorce was quick. Sam adjusted better than I expected, though sometimes he asked why Daddy didn’t live with us anymore.
“Sometimes grown-ups make mistakes,” I told him gently. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t love you.”
Years passed, and Sam grew into a wonderful young man. Mark sent birthday cards but kept his distance—his choice, not mine.
People ask if I regret adopting Sam, knowing what I know now. My answer is always the same.
Not for a second.
Sam wasn’t just my adopted son. He was my son, period. And I’d never let him go.
