How Love Made Us a Family and the Five Words That Revolutionized Everything

Eli was five years old and largely quiet when we received him. We believed that he would learn to speak with time, steadiness, and tender care. He was able to speak in complete sentences on his sixth birthday. Five silent words that transformed our lives:

“My folks are still living here.”

He said more than just that. It was the beginning of a journey that put our fortitude, patience, and our understanding of what constitutes a family to the test.

I always assumed that having a child would come naturally to me, as if life would just open its doors for me. However, the door remained closed as the months turned into years.

My husband, I, and Grayson followed all the doctors’ recommendations. Every appointment ended with someone saying, “I’m sorry.”

In public, I maintained my composure, but at home, I broke down. I sobbed in the shower, on the couch, and in the empty spare bedroom. “Adoption might be your best option,” our doctor suggested quietly after another visit. I sobbed all the way home.

Grayson drew me in. “Love is what makes a parent,” he remarked. “And you are the most loving person I know.”

I kept thinking about those words. Over coffee a week later, I said, “I’m ready.” He grinned as though the sun had finally emerged.

Eli’s expression

That weekend, we visited a foster home in the area. I noticed a small toddler sitting calmly in the playroom’s bright, noisy area. He wasn’t enjoying himself.

Steady, serious, cautious, he was watching. As I knelt down to greet him, he gazed at me with wide, inquisitive eyes and remained silent.

“Eli is shy,” stated Mrs. Caldwell, the boss. “He will adjust to it.”

She shared the narrative from the file with us later in her office: Eli was abandoned as a baby next to another foster home by someone who left a note stating that no one could care for him because his parents had departed.

He had some health issues when he was younger, but he is now OK. She stated, “He needs stability and safety.” “Someone needs to stay with him.”

Nothing else needed to be spoken to me. I turned to face Grayson. He gave a head nod. After signing the paperwork and bringing Eli home, we decorated his room with storybooks, blankets, and dinosaur posters.

By baking pancakes on Saturdays, playing soccer in the park, and reading bedtime stories with a warm lamp and a kind voice, we helped to improve the air quality.

Eli observed. Eli was listening. Eli remained silent.

A Silent Year

When he was quiet, we learned to listen to him. Yes, with a slight nod. No meant that there was no movement of the shoulder.

He disliked being in large crowds, although he enjoyed sports and candy. He enjoyed the green cup he drank from before bed and his blue dinosaur jammies. When I read aloud to him, he would lie motionless and blink slowly, as though he was retaining every word.

Nobody was forced to do anything by us. We simply remained.

His sixth birthday

We made it simple. Three of us sat at the kitchen table with tiny plastic dinosaurs and a chocolate cake. We performed a joyful, off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Eli looked at us, then at the candles, and finally extinguished them.

He set down the fork, folded his hands, and spoke quietly and clearly:

“My folks are still alive.”

I could hear the clock since the room was so quiet. When Grayson and I first met, we were taken aback.

“What did you say, dear?” I asked in a quiet voice.

He stated the same thing again. There was nothing else after that.

When I put him to bed later, he clung to his new toy T. Rex and stated, “Some adults at the foster home said my real mommy and daddy didn’t want me.” Still alive. Simply let me go. A single tear trickled down his forehead as he blinked. “Explain why.”

At the same time, my heart broke and then got better. His voice sounded like this. For him, this was the reality. We promised to look for solutions.

The pursuit of truth

We returned to the foster home the following morning and requested to talk to the supervisor. Mrs. Caldwell’s cheeks tightened when we told her what Eli had said. Eli’s biological parents were still alive, she finally revealed while clenching her fists. They were extremely wealthy.

When he initially had health issues, they believed they couldn’t handle it. It was easier to make up a narrative about a note or a loss than to admit they didn’t want to have children.

“I apologize,” she said. “He is presently doing fine. That’s correct. The remainder, however, ought to have been handled differently.

Despite my anger, I focused on Eli. It was about improving rather than punishing. We inquired about how to contact them. After some hesitation, they eventually agreed. With an address and a knot in our bellies, we departed.

We said to Eli that we could attempt to visit them that evening. He gave a single nod and gripped his dinosaur firmly.

What Wouldn’t Open the Door

A few days later, we arrived at a large home with tall windows and serene grounds after pulling up a long, well-maintained driveway. Eli grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. The door was knocked on by Grayson.

A friendly-looking pair responded. Their smiles vanished when they saw the boy beside me. Grayson’s voice was low. “This is Eli.”

The man was slow to respond, “How can we help you?”

Eli approached, little but courageous. “Are you my parents?”

The woman appeared to be rather afraid. “We—” She paused. The man cleared his throat. They started talking about how unprepared they were, how stressed and ill they were, and how they thought someone else could give him a better life.

Eli was listening. Then he added, “I don’t think you tried,” in a calm manner.

Don’t yell. Not a drama. A child who had been waiting a long time to be seen simply said it in a calm and honest manner. He gazed up at me as he turned and leaned against my side.

“I don’t want to go with the people who left me,” he said, “Mommy.” Dad and you are the ones I want to be with.

In order to see him, I knelt down. “My dear, you don’t have to leave.” Our family includes you. You are our daily choice. We’re not leaving either.

A hand was placed on Eli’s shoulder by Grayson. He declared, “I’ll never let you go.”

The two remained still. Perhaps there was embarrassment. Perhaps feeling guilty. However, they never communicated. What we wanted the child to hear was not said. As we made our way back to the car and then home, we held hands.

Selecting One Another After that visit, things took a different turn. The question that had been bothering him, “Do you want me?” was finally answered. He started talking in short, sporadic snatches, name dinosaurs, inquiring as to whether T. rexes could swim, and sharing his favorite bedtime tales with us.

He trusted his words, then his tears, then his laughs. We honestly answered all of his tough questions before bed, knowing he could handle them: that he never questioned his value, that he always deserved love, and that some adults make decisions they later come to regret.

We also made sure his records were accurate, spoke with our caseworker, and ensured that his treatment was constantly focused on his health in order to preserve his story. We didn’t need to fight. Correctness, safety, and harmony were what we required.

The Family We Started

Our house grew noisier and happier. Eli insisted on doing the pancake flipping himself every Saturday. Saturdays became soccer matches, complete with dirty shoes and raucous grins. He arranged his army of dinosaurs in a line at night and provided each one with a pillow to sleep on. Every time he proudly referred to us as “Mommy” and “Daddy,” it brought tears to my eyes.

He still avoids talking on some days. We continue to move slowly. We still listen more than we talk. However, the terror that formerly stalked him has vanished. He is aware of his place.

“How am I yours if I came from them?” Eli said, looking up one night as we were washing dishes.

I wiped my hands and knelt down to speak with him. “You came from their bodies,” I muttered. ” However, you merged with us. You choose us, and we picked you. That is the essence of a family.

After giving it some thought, he nodded and grinned. “All right,” he said. “Then we’re real.”

“Yes,” I whispered softly as I drew him in. “We are authentic.”

His Five Words and What We Learned

“My parents are alive” began a story we weren’t prepared for. It made us aware of his shortcomings and the difficulties he faced in dealing with people we wish he hadn’t. However, it also brought us to a more compelling truth:

Love has no weakness. Even in difficult times, love endures. In the midst of all the commotion, love creates something solid, lets sadness in, and tells the truth.

We did not have the family we had hoped for. We have something better: a loving, caring family that consistently chooses one another.

Eli’s voice took a long time to arrive. When it did, we remained together. We were made.

And I am reminded of the assurance we made when we brought him home: “We’re here,” each time he places his warm hand in mine. One lovely day at a time, we fulfill that commitment each and every day. We will not be moving.