“Okay,” I said.
My voice was steadier than I expected. The fear was still there, sitting quietly in my chest, but it no longer controlled me.
“Then call them. Book the earliest appointment.”
My husband stared at me in disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe those words had just come from my mouth. For weeks, I’d been searching for reasons to hesitate. I had convinced myself that love needed certainty, that family had to be connected by blood.
But standing in that small hospital room, none of those excuses mattered anymore.
“I’ll do it,” I repeated, this time without hesitation.
The little boy’s fingers tightened gently around mine. His smile was tired, yet filled with a kind of hope that no child should ever have to carry. Around us were colorful drawings taped to the walls, handmade cards from classmates, and a box overflowing with tiny paper stars he had folded one by one during the long hours of treatment. Every star represented a wish. Every fold represented another day he refused to give up.
