When I adopted an older child, I was prepared to teach him what it means to have a family. Instead, I found myself with a little boy in deep mourning for the loss of his loving foster parents.
by Melanie Curtright
Last week, my six-year-old son, Eli, chose to celebrate the first anniversary of his arrival in America at a local diner. Initially, he’d chosen a Chinese restaurant; both choices made sense to me — Chinese food, which he’d left behind, or the American food that he has embraced.
As I watched him chow down on a hamburger and a strawberry milkshake, arguing with his brother, Nick, over who is a better hero — Luke Skywalker or Spider-Man — I couldn’t help but feel a bit triumphant. My little family of three had made it through Eli’s first year — one that my social worker warned me would be “very trying.” What an understatement!
Every day since bringing Eli home, I’ve struggled to help him adjust to his new life while trying to preserve the relationship I have with Nick, now an older brother by just nine months. This has not been a path for the faint of heart…