PART 3
The weeks that followed were the hardest we’d ever lived through.
The court date was getting closer.
Every time the phone rang, my stomach tightened.
Every letter from the caseworker felt like a warning.
But Jett didn’t know any of that.
He just knew us.
He knew my wife’s voice.
He knew the way I rocked him when he couldn’t sleep.
He knew that when he cried, someone came.
And slowly, he started becoming a different baby.
His appetite improved.
His leg began healing.
He started sleeping longer.
Then one morning, something happened that neither of us was prepared for.
Jett laughed.
Not a cry.
Not a little sound.
A real laugh.
My wife was sitting on the floor making ridiculous faces at him.
He stared at her for a second.
Then his face lit up.
“Did you hear that?” she shouted.
I came running from the kitchen.
“What?”
“He laughed!”
She did the same silly face again.
Jett laughed a second time.
We both started crying.
It was such a small thing.
But after everything he’d survived…
that laugh felt like a victory.
7
Then came the court hearing.
We sat in a room filled with strangers.
Lawyers.
Social workers.
A judge.
And, across the room, Jett’s biological mother.
I had imagined that moment a hundred times.
I expected anger.
I expected resentment.
Instead, I saw a young woman who looked exhausted.
She cried before the hearing even began.
When she looked toward Jett, her face changed.
“He looks healthy,” she whispered.
My wife held his hand.
The judge listened to everyone.
There were questions about treatment.
About rehabilitation.
About whether Jett would be safe.
His biological mother admitted she had made terrible choices.
She said she was trying to get sober.
She said she wanted her son back.
I believed she loved him.
That was the hardest part.
Because loving someone doesn’t always mean you’re capable of protecting them.
The judge eventually ordered supervised visitation while the case continued.
So we brought Jett to the visits.
We watched his biological mother hold him.
Sometimes she cried.
Sometimes Jett cried too.
And every time, we reminded ourselves:
This wasn’t about us.
It was about him.
Months passed.
Jett kept growing.
He learned to sit.
Then crawl.
Then pull himself up.
His injured leg became stronger.
His doctors were amazed by his progress.
But the court case wasn’t over.
Then, one afternoon, our caseworker called.
“There’s been a development.”
My heart sank.
“What happened?”
“The biological parents have entered a long-term recovery program.”
I waited.
“They’re asking the court to delay the permanent decision.”
My wife looked at me.
Neither of us knew what to say.
We loved Jett.
But we also wanted his biological parents to become healthy enough to be part of his life.
For the first time, I understood that sometimes love means wanting what’s best for someone…
even when it terrifies you.
Then the caseworker said:
“But there’s something else.”
“What?”
“The judge wants to hear from you.”
