I’ve found my end. The place where something has to give.
A week away with my husband gave us the space we needed to breath. And the distance we needed to see.
To see that it wasn’t working. That we weren’t working. That we were no longer the safest place for Little D.
Knowing we couldn’t keep pretending, we headed home to meet the kind couple who cared for the boys while we were gone.
With heavy hearts we listened to the week’s report. More pain. More hard.
But these strong souls heard the same words differently. Handled the same behaviors differently. With the kids and within themselves. Remaining unphased by the things that left us on edge and in knots.
At first I thought it might be because they were fresh. Well rested. Ready. Maybe last December or January I would have felt the same.
Maybe it was because it was only a week. They knew how many hours and days they had committed. There was only a small chance we might never return from majestic Oregon.
Then again. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was because they’re better at this than we are. They’re better with Little D than we are.
One day I would have been too prideful to think such thoughts. Let alone to be ok with them. To be glad that there was another family out there for Little D that could love him better than we could. No matter how hard we tried.
But that day is long gone. Instead, with humility rather than humiliation, we asked if they would consider becoming Little D’s foster family. And they said yes. Praise God. They said yes.