Then he added, not unkindly but with a bureaucrat’s bluntness, “If this boy is your grandson, where have you been for the last seven years while he’s been here waiting for family?” Eleanor fought back tears. “I swear to you, I didn’t know he existed. I didn’t know Katie had a child.”
The director rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Mrs. Mitchell, let me be candid. Raising a child from a group home—especially an older child with trauma—is not a sentimental project. It’s hard, long-term work. Why take this on now?”
He stood, signaling the meeting was over. “You’ve lived your life without him this long. My advice is to go home and think very carefully before you turn everyone’s life upside down.”
Deeply hurt by his tone, Eleanor left without another word. She wandered the grounds until she found a bench along a shaded path near the entrance. There she sat for hours, hoping that if Joey came outside with the other children, she might somehow identify him by age, timing, or resemblance to Katie.
But evening came, the children were brought back inside for dinner, and Eleanor had to return to her motel room with nothing. For five long days she came back to that same bench as if it were a job. She watched the children at recess from a distance, but none came close enough for her to know anything for certain.
An hour earlier, Mike had called and told her plainly that she needed to stop punishing herself and come home. Her chest ached with exhaustion and disappointment. She wanted badly to sit down and cry, but she knew he had a point. Another day had passed, and she was no closer than before.
He was right, in a way. She had come here imagining that things would move quickly—that someone would take pity on her, that she would meet the boy, that the paperwork would somehow sort itself out. Instead she had run straight into policy, procedure, and locked doors.
With a tired sigh, Eleanor pushed herself up from the bench and started down the leaf-covered path. That was when she heard a raspy voice behind her call out softly.
She turned and saw a small, wiry old man, probably around eighty, wearing a faded jacket and leaning on a cane. He was stooped with age but alert-eyed. “Were you calling to me?” Eleanor asked.
