Chapter 67 Five
The first week with Jane was sleepless and beautiful.
She woke every three hours, hungry and crying. I fed her in the dark, Damian beside me, his hand on my back. The house was quiet. The other children slept. Waffle curled at the foot of the bed, unbothered by the midnight cries. The white pipe hummed its steady song.
On the third night, Rose appeared in the doorway. "Is Jane okay?"
"She's hungry. Go back to sleep."
Rose padded to the bassinet. She looked at the baby, her gray eyes soft. "She's loud."
"She's small. Her lungs are working."
Rose touched Jane's hand. The baby stopped crying immediately.
"She knows me."
"She knows her sister."
Rose smiled and went back to bed. I watched her go, my heart full. Damian kissed my shoulder and pulled me closer.
The children adjusted faster than we did. Lily wanted to hold Jane every morning before school, cradling her like a doll, singing made‑up songs about cats and stars. She would whisper secrets into Jane's ear, her voice barely audible. Max named her toys: Mr. Wobbles, Sir Snuggles, and Tiny Roar. He lined them up next to her bassinet like a tiny army. Leo tracked her feeding schedule on a color‑coded chart, timing each bottle with the precision of a scientist. He added notes about her mood, her sleep patterns, and even the number of diapers. Rose read to her from her own childhood books, the pages worn and soft from years of use.
Damian watched them from the doorway one afternoon, coffee in hand. "We made a family."
"We added to one."
He kissed my temple. "Same thing. We're building something bigger."
Jane's first doctor appointment was at the same clinic where we had spent so many hours with the other children. Different waiting room. Different hope. No familiar beeps of monitors, no anxious parents, no folders full of genetic tests. Just a normal baby checkup.
Dr. Cross was retired. A new pediatrician, Dr. Mills, examined Jane from head to toe. "Healthy. Growing. Perfect."
Damian exhaled. "No surprises?"
"No surprises. Just a baby. A very lucky one to have found you."
I held Jane close, breathing in her baby scent. "We needed that. We needed something simple."
On Saturday, Eleanor came to meet Jane. She brought a crocheted blanket, pale yellow, with tiny hand‑stitched flowers. She held the baby for an hour, rocking on the porch, singing an old lullaby I remembered from my own childhood.
"She looks like someone," Eleanor said.
"Who?"
"I don't know. Maybe like herself. Maybe like hope. Maybe like all the good things that came after the hard years."
Damian sat beside her. "She looks like home."
Eleanor wiped her eyes, then laughed. "Yes. She does. This is what I always wanted for you. A house full of children. A heart full of love." She kissed Jane's forehead and handed her back to me, her hands trembling slightly.
The foster paperwork required monthly visits from a social worker. Sarah Jennings came to the house, asked questions, watched us with Jane. The children showed her their rooms. Waffle licked her hand. She stayed for dinner once, impressed by the chaos and the noise.
"You're doing well," she said. "Better than most. The attachment is strong. Jane is thriving."
"We're trying."
"The mother hasn't been found. The case is moving toward termination of parental rights. Adoption is becoming more likely every day."
Damian nodded. "We're ready. We've been ready since the first night."
Three months passed. Jane grew. She smiled, rolled over, reached for toys. The children fought over who got to hold her next, who got to feed her, who got to push the stroller on afternoon walks.
Rose wrote a new story: "The Baby Who Came From the Hospital." Lily drew a family portrait with five children, all holding hands under a rainbow, a small dog at their feet. Max taught Jane to hold a tiny dinosaur, pressing it into her palm and closing her fingers around it. Leo showed her the moon through his telescope, narrating craters and orbits in a soft voice.
Damian and I sat on the porch one night, watching the stars. The marigolds glowed in the moonlight.
"Five children," he said.
"Five."
"I never imagined this. Not in my best dreams."
I took his hand. "I never imagined any of it. The twins. The secrets. The medical maze. The baby from nowhere."
"But here we are."
"Here we are. Together."
The adoption was finalized on a Tuesday. A judge in a small courtroom with wood paneling and a high ceiling. No cameras. No reporters. Just us, the children, Eleanor, Rosa, and Jane in her yellow blanket.
The judge looked at Damian over her glasses. "You're sure?"
"More sure than anything."
The judge looked at me. "And you?"
"She's ours. She has been since the first night I held her."
The judge signed the papers with a steady hand. "Jane Blackwood. Welcome to your family."
Rose clapped. Lily cried happy tears. Max cheered. Leo nodded. I held Jane. Damian held me.
That night, we had a party in the garden. Eleanor brought a three‑layer cake with yellow frosting. Rosa brought homemade pizza and lemonade. The children ran through the sprinklers, shrieking with joy, their laughter echoing off the house. Rose pushed Lily on the swing. Max chased Leo with a water gun. Lily picked flowers and tucked them behind her ears.
Jane slept in a bassinet under the stars, wrapped in Eleanor's yellow blanket, her tiny chest rising and falling peacefully. Waffle lay beside her, guarding her sleep, one eye open.
Damian stood beside me, his arm around my waist. "We're done."
"No more waiting. No more uncertainty. Just family."
I leaned into him. "Just family. Just us."
The white pipe hummed. The marigolds bloomed. The stars came out, one by one, scattered across the sky like tiny promises.
Jane opened her eyes. She looked at the stars, unfocused but curious.
"She sees the stars," Damian said.
"She's home."
We stood together,
our family around us, and the night was quiet and full.