“Permanent?”
“That’s generally how adoption actually works.”
He looked away from me. “What if I mess it up somehow?”
“Then we’d deal together with whatever you messed up.”
“What if you regretted it, eventually?”
“Then I’d simply be an adult, having a feeling. You’d still remain my kid regardless.”
His eyes stayed fixed on the table. “You make everything sound so simple.”
“No. I make commitment sound simple. That’s genuinely different.”
When Callum finally moved into my house, he treated absolutely everything as though he were merely borrowing it temporarily. He made his own bed before breakfast every morning. Washed his plate immediately after eating. Folded towels without ever once being asked to.
The first Saturday, I nearly tripped over a loose porch step. Callum appeared instantly with a screwdriver in hand. “How long has this actually been like this?”
“Couple of years now.”
He stared at me. “You’ve genuinely been walking on this thing?”
“I enjoy a little danger.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
A month later, he called me Mom entirely by accident. “Mom, have you seen my charger anywhere?” We both froze completely. Callum turned bright red. “Kitchen counter,” I said quickly. “Right.” Neither one of us mentioned it out loud. But he kept right on saying it regardless, over and over, in the weeks that followed. By the time the adoption was finally finalized, I’d genuinely stopped waiting for him to eventually become somebody else entirely.
