Every morning, even on my worst days, Rachel would come into my room and say, “Good morning, beautiful girl. It’s a gift to see your face.”
Every night, no matter how late her shift ran, she’d come home and check on me, sitting on my bed to hear about my day. On good weeks, we’d go to the movies or the park. On bad weeks, we’d camp out on the couch with blankets and watch terrible reality TV.
She never once complained about the cost. Insurance covered most of my treatment, but there were still expenses. Co-pays, medications, special food supplies. Rachel’s house was small and modest, and I later learned she’d taken out a second mortgage to cover some of the costs. She never told me that at the time. She just made sure I had everything I needed.
6 months into my treatment, Rachel sat me down at the kitchen table with a serious expression.
“Sarah, I need to ask you something important.”
My heart sank. Was she sending me back to foster care? Had she changed her mind?
“I want to adopt you legally, permanently. Not just foster care. I want you to be my daughter. My real daughter. Would that be okay with you?”
I couldn’t speak. I just nodded and cried, and Rachel cried, too, and we held each other in that kitchen until Pancake the cat got jealous and demanded attention.
The adoption process took another four months, but on my 14th birthday, I officially became Sarah Torres. Rachel threw a small party with some of her friends and a few kids I’d met through the hospital’s support group. We ate chocolate cake. I was having a good week and could actually keep food down. And Rachel gave me a necklace with a pendant that had both our initials intertwined.
“You’re mine now,” she said, fastening it around my neck. “Forever.”
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