The normal sounds of the hospital continued outside the room.

Carts moving.

Phones ringing.

People talking.

But inside that room, the world had stopped.

“What are you saying?”

Mom reached for my hand.

“I adopted you.”

I stared at her.

“From Maplewood?”

“Yes.”

For several seconds, I simply looked at her.

Then she began telling me the story.

I had been two years old when I arrived at Maplewood House.

My biological parents had been involved in a serious car accident.

Neither survived.

There had been relatives on both sides of my biological family, but complicated disagreements prevented anyone from immediately taking custody.

Weeks turned into months.

Nobody came.

Mom was working at Maplewood as a nurse at the time.

She and my father had been trying unsuccessfully to have children for years.

Treatments.

Disappointments.

Hope followed by more disappointment.