Invisible String

8

The next morning, my phone buzzed with emails from Tree — detailed info on adoption agencies, requirements, timelines. I barely glanced at them as I walked into the kitchen, wearing only Travis’s oversized shirt, my hair a mess, craving that first cup of coffee.

“Thank God I can have caffeine again,” I sighed, reaching for the coffee pot.

Travis nearly spat out his own drink at the words. I shot him a pointed glare.

He just laughed and shook his head. “Well, guess what? Tree already got back to us. Seems like she’s on it, full speed ahead.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. At least someone was moving forward while I tried to keep my heart steady.

We sat down together with the stack of papers Tree had sent over, expecting something simple — maybe photos of kids waiting for families, some profiles to browse through. Instead, we were hit with a wall of forms, legal jargon, and an endless list of background checks and home studies.

I glanced at Travis, and he raised his eyebrows. “This is way more intense than I thought,” he muttered.

Honestly, we had no clue how any of this worked. It wasn’t like picking out a baby from a catalog; it was more like applying for a new job, but with your whole life on the line. The weight of it all felt suffocating, but deep down, I knew we had to push through — this was our new path forward, messy paperwork and all.

Tree set up a video call with someone who specialized in adoption—an adoption counselor who explained everything step-by-step. We gathered around the laptop, Travis and I both tense but wanting to understand.

She started by saying adoption isn’t just about filling out forms and waiting for a baby to appear. First, there’s the home study, which basically means social workers come to your house, interview you, your family, and anyone living with you, to make sure the environment is safe and stable for a child. They want to know your history, your finances, your relationships — everything.

Once the home study is approved, you get certified as an adoptive family and get put on a waiting list. This waiting list isn’t just a queue, though. There are profiles of birth parents who might be looking for adoptive families, and sometimes you get to review those profiles to see if there’s a good match based on values, lifestyle, and preferences.

The counselor explained there are different types of adoption: foster-to-adopt, private adoption, and agency adoption. Each had its own timeline and legal hoops. Some adoptions happen quickly if a birth mother chooses you early on, and others might take years.

She emphasized patience. “Adoption is unpredictable,” she said softly. “You could be matched quickly, or it might take a long time. And sometimes, things don’t go as planned, so you have to be prepared emotionally.”

By the end of the call, I felt a little overwhelmed but also relieved. At least now we knew what to expect. It wasn’t just waiting and hoping—it was a process we had to actively navigate. Travis reached over and squeezed my hand. “We’ll get through this,” he said. And I believed him.

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I had sunscreen on my nose, my hair was in a messy braid, and I was wearing a pink bikini top with jean shorts. The last thing I expected was the doorbell. At first, I figured it was a neighbor, maybe someone dropping off something festive for the Fourth, but when I opened it and saw the neatly dressed woman holding a clipboard and wearing the world’s most professional smile, my heart sank.

“Oh. Oh no. You’re the home study inspector, aren’t you?” I blurted.

She nodded kindly. “Yes—Caroline. We had an appointment for today?”