Five families had considered adopting three-year-old Lily, but every one of them backed out. I never understood why. At 68, I decided to give her a home myself. Everything seemed wonderful until my attorney called and said, “There’s something about those five families you need to know.”

I volunteer at a small church where we organize events for children in foster care.

We bring books, clothes, and toys, whatever the group homes tell us they need.

I started volunteering after my husband, Peter, and our daughter, Rebecca, died in a car accident 11 years ago.

That period was a difficult one.

Some mornings I barely managed to get dressed.

The house was so quiet that I’d leave the television running just to hear another voice.

My pastor, Helen, invited me to help sort donated coats one Saturday.

I went because I couldn’t bear another afternoon alone.

Then I kept going.

Last spring, our church visited a children’s group home.

While the other children played, a little girl sat beside a window holding a stuffed rabbit with one ear missing.

“Her name’s Lily,” a caseworker told me. “She’s three.”

I crouched beside her.

“Does your rabbit have a name?”

She regarded me seriously. “Bunny.”

“That’s a very good name.”

She held up the damaged ear. “He’s broken.”

“I think he’s still handsome.”

For the first time, she smiled.

I learned that five families had considered adopting Lily and then withdrew.

The caseworker couldn’t discuss their reasons.

I only knew that each time a family came and went, Lily grew quieter.

Before I left, she put Bunny into my hands.

“Can you fix him?”

I promised to try.

I was 68, lived alone, and hadn’t cared for a small child in decades.

Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I contacted the agency, asked about adoption, and began the assessments.

There were interviews, medical checks, home visits, financial reviews, and uncomfortable questions about my age.

I arranged for my niece, Claire, to be Lily’s backup caregiver if I became ill.

Claire was 32, lived ten minutes away, and had known about my plans from the beginning.

“I don’t want a child losing another home,” I told the social worker.

“Neither do we,” she replied.

After months of preparation and visits with Lily, the adoption was finalized.

On our first evening home, Lily walked from room to room asking, “Mine?”

“Your room,” I said. “Your books. Your bed.”

She touched my sleeve. “And I’ll never leave?”

“If you don’t want to.”

I sat beside her until she fell asleep.

Our house was filled with scattered blocks and early morning cartoons.

Sometimes Lily reminded me of Rebecca, especially when she tilted her head while thinking.

But she had her own fierce little personality.

She hated cereals, loved yellow socks, and insisted on choosing which stories I read.

Four months later, my attorney, Martin, called.

“There’s been a serious omission in the records we received,” he said. “Could you come to my office?”

Claire stayed with Lily while I drove there.

Martin had a folder open on his desk. His expression frightened me before he spoke.

“These concern the five families who withdrew.”

I looked at the first page, then the second.

On the third was a name: Victor.

Under it were copies of five written reports. Every family had received threats.

One found photographs of their home in an envelope.

Another had been told their own children would suffer if they adopted Lily.

The fifth described a man following them from a meeting with a caseworker.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered. “How could they hide this from me?”

Martin let me read before answering.

Victor was Lily’s biological uncle.

He’d applied to care for her after her parents died, but the child welfare agency had rejected his placement.

They did an assessment and found violent incidents and unsafe conditions in his home.

The material I’d received before adoption said no suitable or interested relatives were available.

That statement left out years of attempted contact and interference.

“He wasn’t approved,” Martin said. “But he didn’t accept the decision.”

I stared at the papers.

“Those families didn’t reject Lily.”

“From these reports, it appears they feared for their safety.”

I remembered how Lily sometimes cried when an unfamiliar person raised his voice.

I remembered her hiding behind my chair when a delivery driver knocked.

“Does Victor know where she lives?”

Martin looked troubled.

“We don’t know yet.”

Then I remembered the gray sedan.

It had been parked across from my house several times in the past month.

Once, I watched it pull away when I stepped onto the porch.

I’d assumed it was someone visiting a neighbor.

I told Martin.

He picked up the phone immediately.

We contacted the agency’s safeguarding supervisor and made a police report.

Martin stressed that the documents did not prove who owned the car or whether any crime had occurred, but they gave investigators important leads.

The drive home felt twice as long.

At a red light, I caught myself checking every car behind me.

I hated that fear had found its way into my life.

When I got home, Claire was on the floor building a tower with Lily.

“Mama!” Lily shouted when I opened the door.

She’d started calling me that during our adoption visits, before eventually settling on “Mama Rose.”

My name is Rosemary, and I treasured both.

I hugged her so tightly she squirmed.