We spent years thinking our story was stuck on not yet, and then, almost overnight, not yet became two yeses, proof that love builds families in more than one way and that hope, kept alive, can come home twice. Michael and I have been married for six years. When we were dating, we’d paddle around Lake Washington and dream out loud. One afternoon, adoption came up. I cannot remember who said it first; only the other answered without missing a beat. It felt like a nudge from God.
We did not expect having biological children to be so hard. Early in our marriage, I got pregnant, then miscarried later in the pregnancy, and needed surgery. I had never even heard the word miscarriage used in real life. Grief knocked me flat. Some friends wanted me to bounce back faster than I could, which hurt too. When I was ready to try again, nothing happened. Years passed. Doctors shrugged and called it unexplained. I searched for a reason, blamed myself, and wondered why my body could not do what seemed to come so easily to others. We tried treatment and lost two more pregnancies that should have been viable. The shots, the appointments, the hopeful calendars, the crashes afterward, it all took so much out of us.
We pressed pause. For a year, we focused on the life we did have, not the one we were missing. Our marriage strengthened, our community grew deeper, and the old dream of adoption rose to the surface again. We started the process and learned how much waiting there is, how many maybes turn into nos, and how rejection can sting even when you know it just means the story lies elsewhere.
Then came the email. An expectant mother in Florida chose us. We flew to Jacksonville, hopeful, and kept trying to meet each time she had a new crisis. Finally, our lawyer called the hospital to confirm a meeting and learned she had already delivered a month earlier. It was intended to defraud. I expected to unravel. Instead, a strange, heavy peace reached us, and a phrase settled into my chest: God is not finished. We packed our bags, flew home empty-handed, and asked our people to forgive her and keep praying.
A month later, another email. Chosen again. This time, our hearts were guarded but calm. On a video call, our expectant mom, now our beloved Mama M, looked at her caseworker and then at us and said, I know they are the ones. We flew to Utah. Because of pandemic rules, we were told we would not meet the baby until discharge, but the nurses made an exception and gave us their best room. We held our daughter for two days while snow fell quietly outside. Mama M signed when she was ready. We named our girl Malina Anna, born 2-2-21, and left the hospital with her birth family, exchanging small gifts and big promises. We gave Mama M time alone with Malina in the hospital, then she sent her back to us at night without us asking. It felt like shared love, not divided love.
Three months later, our phones lit up again. The same agency from our disruption called about a little boy in Florida whose mother wanted a family that knew what it meant to lose and say yes again. She read our story and chose us. We scrambled to renew paperwork in days. We were still short twenty thousand dollars, so we asked our small church if they wanted to help. They said we will cover it. I do not think I have ever seen God’s provision show up so plainly. We flew east, met Mama N and our son, and named him Fynn. The family came to help as we waited for the interstate paperwork to clear. After years of empty hands, two babies in our arms felt like a double portion.
Our days are a blur of bottles, burp cloths, and belly laughs. Malina and Fynn reach for each other, hold hands, bump cheeks, and remind us every hour what grace looks like. We honor both of their first families, carry their stories with respect, and keep the door open with love. We still remember the long wait, the losses, the no answers, the failed match, the quiet ache of being left out. If I could send a message to that version of us, I would tell them to keep their eyes up. God was not late. He was weaving.
