Five families had considered adopting three-year-old Lily, but every one of them backed out. I never understood why. At 68, I decided to give her a home myself. Everything seemed wonderful until my attorney called and said, “There’s something about those five families you need to know.”
I volunteer at a small church where we organize events for children in foster care.
We bring books, clothes, and toys, whatever the group homes tell us they need.
I started volunteering after my husband, Peter, and our daughter, Rebecca, died in a car accident 11 years ago.
Some mornings I barely managed to get dressed.
The house was so quiet that I’d leave the television running just to hear another voice.
My pastor, Helen, invited me to help sort donated coats one Saturday.
I went because I couldn’t bear another afternoon alone.
Then I kept going.
While the other children played, a little girl sat beside a window holding a stuffed rabbit with one ear missing.
“Her name’s Lily,” a caseworker told me. “She’s three.”
I crouched beside her.
“Does your rabbit have a name?”
She regarded me seriously. “Bunny.”
She held up the damaged ear. “He’s broken.”
“I think he’s still handsome.”
For the first time, she smiled.
I learned that five families had considered adopting Lily and then withdrew.
The caseworker couldn’t discuss their reasons.
Before I left, she put Bunny into my hands.
“Can you fix him?”
I promised to try.
I was 68, lived alone, and hadn’t cared for a small child in decades.
Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
There were interviews, medical checks, home visits, financial reviews, and uncomfortable questions about my age.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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