My husband yelled, “We must return him!” when he went to bathe the three-year-old boy we had adopted for the first time.

I never thought that my marriage would fall apart when I brought home our adoptive son. However, in retrospect, I see that the universe occasionally has a warped sense of timing, and that certain blessings are accompanied by grief.

“Are you anxious?” As we drove to the agency, I questioned Mark.

I was fidgeting with the small blue jumper I had purchased for our soon-to-be son, Sam. I pictured his tiny shoulders filling the fabric, which felt unbelievably soft under my fingers.

“Me? Although his knuckles were white on the steering wheel, Mark said, “No.” “I’m just eager to start this show. Traffic is driving me crazy.

With a nervous tick that I’d noticed more often lately, he drummed his fingers on the dash.

With a strained laugh, he said, “You’ve checked the car seat three times.” “I think you’re the one who’s anxious.”

“I am, of course!” Once more, I smoothed the sweater. “This is what we’ve been waiting so long for.”

I had primarily managed the difficult adoption process while Mark concentrated on growing his company.

I had been searching agency lists for a child for months, and the never-ending paperwork, home studies, and interviews had taken up all of my time. At first, we had intended to adopt a baby, but the waiting lists were so long that I began looking into other options.

That’s how I came across the picture of Sam, a three-year-old youngster with a smile that could melt glaciers and eyes like June skies.