Richard didn’t flinch. “I have a job. I have savings. I’ll do what it takes.”
Gloria’s expression softened slightly—not approval, but curiosity. “And what about their culture?” she asked. “You’re a white man adopting nine Black girls in America in 1979. Do you understand what that means?”
Richard swallowed. “It means people will stare. It means they’ll face things I’ve never faced. It means I’ll have to learn.”
Gloria studied him for a long moment.
“Learning isn’t optional,” she said finally. “It’s survival.”
Richard nodded. “Then I’ll learn.”
The home inspection nearly broke him.
Not because his house wasn’t clean—it was spotless. Not because he lacked space—he had prepared the nursery years ago, only now he had to expand it into two rooms, convert the guest room, and borrow cribs.
It nearly broke him because of what it represented: the world demanding proof that his love was qualified.
The inspector looked at the stack of diapers and asked, “You realize this is nine times the cost?”
Richard said, “Yes.”
The inspector frowned at the kitchen. “Do you have help?”
Richard hesitated.
He didn’t have help yet. Not real help. He had neighbors who said, “Let me know if you need anything,” and friends who patted his shoulder and called him brave like that was useful.
Gloria Parker didn’t accept vague.
“You need a plan,” she told him. “A real one.”
So Richard built one.
He went to his church—not for salvation, but for logistics. He stood awkwardly at the back after Sunday service and asked if anyone could volunteer. He expected polite sympathy.
Instead, an older woman with silver hair and a steady gaze stepped forward.
“I’m Mrs. Johnson,” she said. “I raised five. I can raise nine. You got a schedule?”
Richard blinked. “You would help?”
Mrs. Johnson gave him a look that said she’d been waiting for someone to ask. “Baby girls need love,” she said. “And they need somebody who knows how to braid hair without hurting feelings.”
Richard swallowed hard. “I don’t even know how to hold a comb.”
Mrs. Johnson smiled. “Then you’ll learn.”
By the time the court date arrived, Richard had a binder: income statements, childcare schedules, volunteers, pediatric appointments, a plan for schooling, a plan for emergencies.
Still, the judge looked at him like he was either a saint or an idiot.
“You understand,” the judge said, “that adoption is permanent.”
Richard’s voice stayed steady. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“You understand,” the judge continued, “that nine children will change your life completely.”
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