It didn’t matter that she wasn’t mine biologically.
“Blood doesn’t determine who your parents are,” Dad said, cradling the peaceful baby in his arms—Skye was always peaceful when she was given love and tenderness. “Love does.”
And Heath and I loved our little girl with all the pieces of ourselves.
She was ours. In more than blood.
But she was a lot. She did have problems. But we seemed uniquely qualified to handle them.
She cried a lot. Screamed, in fact. But her father was cool, calm under pressure, and he cradled her restless and fragile little body, laid it upon his bare chest, and somehow, it soothed her.
Like it had soothed me when I was broken.
I walked with her strapped to my chest, up and down the beach at three in the morning. She liked the witching hour.
Now I knew that everything happened for a reason. Everything ugly, horrible and unthinkable Heath and I had been through in our lives gave us the tools to give our daughter beautiful peace.
But she was still a newborn baby.
And they didn’t like sleep.
So we were tired when we pushed the stroller into the shelter. It was now one of three in the city, with Jay expanding. I helped manage when I could, but I was also building my second yoga studio inside the next shelter he was converting.
It was safe to say that the people of L.A. liked my particular brand of peace.
And people liked Greenstone dealing with their chaos, so Heath was busy. Not busy enough to miss feedings. To give me time to do things like shower, brush my hair and remember to put on deodorant.
He was a hands-on dad.
Skye was his princess.
So we were busier than ever, yet we made sure to volunteer once a week. Heath came every single time, not just for security. But to contribute. Because he wanted to be involved. Because of his past. Because he found that a lot of people had parents like his, and those people didn’t react the same way as him. Didn’t have the opportunity to react in the same way as him and they ended up on the streets.
He worked with them to find jobs.
And that’s how we found our son.
He was too skinny for a start.
He was jumpy.
Didn’t talk to anyone.
Didn’t let anyone touch him.
But he touched my heart the second I saw him. I had a reaction, one I couldn’t explain then, and I wouldn’t be able to explain at his high school graduation or his wedding.
Because I believed in love at first sight.
That people belonged to each other.
And he belonged to me.
I didn’t tell Heath immediately and he didn’t have the same reaction as me. Not until Skye started having an episode. One that was common with babies like her. It was something more than a crying jag. It was horrible, heartbreaking to watch. Because nothing could calm her down. She had to cry it out.
People at the shelter knew this, knew us, and they understood Skye.
And they knew that it was made worse when people tried to comfort her. She barely quietened when Heath gently rocked her—and she had a special bond with her dad already.
Heath froze as the skinny, bruised boy came up. He was on high alert when his daughter was involved. But something gave him pause.
Skye’s screams silenced the second he put his hand on her tiny chest.
Utter silence.
Heath gaped at the boy.
And he was a boy. Upon closer inspection even younger than I’d thought.
Ten, at the most.
And he was at a homeless shelter, wearing dirty and torn clothes, sporting a bruise and a sadness in his eyes that broke my soul. And he gave my daughter peace in the midst of chaos even Heath and I couldn’t calm.
He was ours since then.
It wasn’t easy getting him to trust us.
To realize we weren’t going to hurt him, leave him, scar him more.
It wasn’t easy getting the adoption to go through.
But it was worth it.