I Found a Terrified Little Girl While Making a Delivery and Adopted Her – 16 Years Later She Said, ‘I Never Want to See You Again’

“She can stay with me tonight,” I heard myself say. “Just tonight.

Until you find someone.”

That one night turned into three. Then seven.

Social workers started visiting my crappy little apartment, clipboards in hand, eyes scanning the peeling linoleum like it personally offended them.

They asked about my income, my criminal history, whether I did drugs, whether I had any idea what I was signing up for.

Honestly, I didn’t. But every time they said “placement,” Rosie’s fingers curled in the back of my shirt, and that was enough.

She wouldn’t sleep unless I was in the same room.

I tried the couch, letting her have my bed.

She cried. I tried leaving her in the thrift-store twin I’d shoved into the corner. She cried harder.

We ended up with both beds crammed into my small room, her ballerina sheets almost touching my plain gray ones.

She’d fall asleep with her hand stretched across the gap, fingertips resting against my blanket like she needed proof I was still there.

The first time she called me Mom, we were late for kindergarten orientation.

I was juggling a cereal bowl, my keys, and a stack of forms, and she was hopping on one foot trying to get her shoe on.

“Did you brush your teeth?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

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