PART 2
The first night with Jett was nothing like we had imagined.
He didn’t sleep.
Not for more than a few minutes at a time.
His tiny body would finally relax, and we’d think he’d drifted off.
Then he’d suddenly wake up crying.
Sometimes his hands trembled.
Sometimes he’d arch his back.
Sometimes he seemed terrified of being alone.
We took turns holding him.
My wife walked through the living room at three in the morning, rocking him against her chest.
I watched from the couch.
She hadn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours.
“Give him to me,” I whispered.
She shook her head.
“He needs this.”
“What?”
She looked down at him.
“Someone to stay.”
Those words stayed with me.
So we stayed.
Night after night.
Morning after morning.
We learned every sound he made.
The difference between hunger and pain.
The tiny expression that meant he needed to be held.
The way his fingers wrapped around ours when he finally felt safe.
6
But then came the medical appointments.
The doctors warned us that recovery would take time.
His withdrawal symptoms didn’t disappear overnight.
His leg needed careful monitoring.
Feeding remained difficult.
And every appointment seemed to bring another question.
One afternoon, after a particularly hard doctor’s visit, my wife sat in the car holding Jett.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this,” she whispered.
I reached across the console.
“You don’t have to be strong every minute.”
She looked at me.
“Then what do we do?”
“We show up.”
That became our rule.
When we were exhausted, we showed up.
When we were scared, we showed up.
When we didn’t know what we were doing, we asked for help and showed up anyway.
Slowly…
Jett changed.
The crying became less frequent.
His eyes began following us around the room.
He started smiling.
The first time he smiled at my wife, she froze.
“Did you see that?”
I laughed.
“Yeah.”
“No, I mean really see it.”
She started crying.
It was the smallest smile.
But to us, it felt enormous.
Then one morning, Jett wrapped his fingers around mine.
He stared at me for several seconds.
I whispered:
“You’re safe, buddy.”
He didn’t understand the words.
Not yet.
But maybe he understood the voice.
The tone.
The fact that someone was there.
Then, just as we were beginning to believe things were getting better, our caseworker arrived at the house.
She sat across from us.
Her expression was serious.
“There is something you need to know.”
My wife immediately looked at Jett.
“What happened?”
The caseworker folded her hands.
“His biological parents are requesting visitation.”
The room went silent.
I looked at my wife.
Then at the baby sleeping peacefully in her arms.
For the first time since bringing him home…
I felt afraid of what the future might take away from us.
The caseworker continued.
“And there’s a court hearing next month.”
My wife’s eyes filled with tears.
“Are they trying to take him back?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I looked at Jett.
He had finally found peace in our home.
And suddenly…
that peace had an expiration date.
The caseworker stood up.
Before leaving, she said something I’ll never forget.
“Don’t get too attached.”
My wife stared at her.
Then looked down at Jett.
She kissed his forehead.
“That’s already impossible.”
