Fostering

He was so small

when the world first handed him to me-

seven days old,

still more hope than certainty,

still learning how to breathe

on his own.

They told me not to get too attached,

as if love could ever be measured,

as if I could hold him

without my heart learning his rhythm.

So I smiled-

the mask every foster parent wears-

the one that says I understand the rules

even when my soul never did.

I've worn it through court hearings,

through visits that made my stomach twist,

through every "we'll know more soon."

Behind it, I whispered quiet prayers

into the curls at the back of his neck,

willing him to feel safe

before he even knew what safe meant.

Now, six months later,

he laughs like he's never known anything but love.

His hand fits perfectly in mine,

as if it's always been meant to.

They say adoption is coming-

a word that feels both fragile and fierce.

I nod, smile, thank them.

That's the mask again.

It's what love looks like

when you're afraid to believe it's finally

yours.

But at night,

when the house softens into silence,

I take it off.

And in the glow of his nightlight,

I let myself dream-

not of endings,

but of beginnings that finally stay.

I've loved him every day like he might stay,

and now I'm learning what it means when

he does.