“I want to begin the foster care process,” Andrew said immediately.
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“Andrew… you travel constantly. These cases take time.”
“Then I’ll stop traveling.”
Even he didn’t know where the certainty came from.
But it was there.
And it felt right.
The first weeks were not easy.
Emily barely spoke.
She watched every hallway in Andrew’s house with suspicion, as if expecting a trap to appear at any moment.
The baby—who Emily eventually decided to name Noah—slowly began gaining weight with proper care.
Andrew reopened the nursery that had sat empty for years.
He removed dusty furniture.
He repainted the walls.
He installed a new crib near the window.
The first night Emily slept in that room, she didn’t actually sleep.
She sat beside the crib with her knees pulled to her chest, watching Noah breathe.
Andrew found her there at three in the morning.
“You can rest,” he told her gently. “I’m here.”
She didn’t answer.
But eventually she leaned her head against the side of the bed.
Within minutes she fell asleep.
Andrew stayed sitting on the floor beside them, keeping watch.
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.
The legal process took months.