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Sophie and I clicked in a way that surprised everyone—especially me. I’d never spent much time around young children, but something about her open curiosity and complete lack of filter was endlessly endearing. She asked a million questions about everything, had very firm opinions about which foods were allowed to touch on her plate, and somehow possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of every dog we passed during our walks.
The shift from Auntie Emma to Mama Emma happened slowly, then suddenly all at once. It began one night during a sleepover when Sophie woke up crying from a nightmare. James was in the shower, so I went to her room. I sat on her bed, rubbing her back while she explained her bad dream in shaky whispers. When she finally calmed down, she curled into my side and murmured, half-asleep, “Thanks, Mama Emma.”
James found us like that about twenty minutes later—Sophie asleep against my shoulder, me wide awake and overwhelmed, staring at this little person who had just claimed me as family without ceremony or discussion.
“Did she just…?” James whispered.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently smoothed Sophie’s hair. “How do you feel about that?” he asked quietly.
“Terrified,” I admitted. “And completely in love with both of you.”
That was the moment we began talking seriously about the future. James explained that Sophie’s biological mother had legally relinquished all parental rights when she left. She had signed the paperwork, wanting a clean, complete break. If Sophie wanted me to adopt her, and if James and I married, the legal process would actually be fairly straightforward.
“But only if this is truly what you want,” James stressed. “Being a parent is forever, Emma. There’s nothing casual about it. If you’re not ready for that kind of commitment, I need to know now—before Sophie gets any more attached.”
I thought about it for maybe thirty seconds. “I’m ready,” I said. “I’ve been ready since the day she held my hand at the museum.”
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