In the photos our agency sent, I saw a serious little boy growing up without a mother. Halfway around the world, I waited and longed for the day when I could fill that role.
By Barbara Sinsheimer
One evening in August, I picked up the phone and heard a familiar voice. “You have a son,” said our social worker. “He’s 14 months old and….” I never heard the rest of the sentence.
“Barb, are you there?” she asked.
“Oh, my God, oh, my God,” was all I could say.
We had mailed our dossier only four weeks earlier and were told to expect a one- to three-month wait for our referral.
I settled down enough to finish the conversation, then ran into the bedroom we were redecorating. After hours of hard work, the room was nearly ready to welcome a child of either gender. We’d refinished the wood floors and polished them until they shone, painted the walls sea green and sky blue, and stenciled sea-life figures onto the dresser and bed. I found my husband, Tom, in the closet, paintbrush in hand…