Part 8 — Telling Our Boys They Might Have a Sister
We were careful with our sons.
We didn’t tell them, “You have a baby sister.”
Not at first.
We said there was a little baby whose mother had died.
We said she needed people to take care of her while adults made important decisions.
We explained that we wanted to help.
Our oldest was quiet for several minutes.
Then he asked,
“Will she live here forever?”
“We don’t know.”
Our seven-year-old had a much more practical concern.
“Is she allowed in my room?”
“Not without knocking when she gets older.”
He frowned.
“But babies can’t knock.”
“No.”
“So she can go in?”
“Probably.”
His eyes filled with tears.
I panicked.
“What’s wrong?”
He wiped his face furiously.
“I don’t know.”
Then he whispered:
“I think I really want a sister.”
Our four-year-old listened to the whole conversation before asking,
“Does she eat chicken nuggets?”
We all stared at him.
“What?”
“If she lives here, does she eat nuggets?”
“Eventually.”
He nodded seriously.
“Okay. She can have some of mine.”
Coming from a four-year-old who considered sharing food an act of extreme personal sacrifice, that was practically a declaration of lifelong devotion.
Months later, when we were finally approved as her foster placement, the boys behaved as though royalty had arrived.
They argued over who could bring diapers.
Who could choose her pajamas.
Who could sit closest to her.
Who had made her smile first.
For years our house had been loud.
Clara somehow made it louder.
And none of us minded.
