My Day in Court
Entering the room, it was more elegant and less foreboding than I had anticipated. It felt like we were being swallowed whole by a tree, every surface was smooth mahogany, polished to perfection. Most of the benches were already filled, but we found three spots together and settled in. A man in uniform was reading off names, the owners of which would stand and move to the front to stand before the judge. He wasn’t intimidating, the way you may imagine. His face bore a wide smile, contradicting the atmosphere the rest of the building exuded. Today was his favorite type of day, you could just tell by the softness behind his eyes.
When they finally called our names, I could feel the awkwardness in the room. I stood at least two feet taller than most of the people there that day and I knew people were watching us, wondering why we were here. Standing before the podium where the judge sat, one of the few things in the room that rose above my own height, I felt my heart begin to quicken as if it was going to escape my ribcage, spill into the room and reveal itself to the congregation.
The judge spoke his script, and we spoke ours. Freedom of speech may be a right in this country, but in a courtroom, there is a protocol to follow. My voice wavered, not because of uncertainty, but out of relief. For most of my life, this moment was one I had eagerly wished for. It was the moment I would finally be free, the moment that would change everything.
Six months earlier, I had celebrated my eighteenth birthday at my favorite restaurant surrounding by my entire family. After the meal, the cake, and too many presents that were truly necessary, my mom had handed me the final gift of the day. It was a thin manila envelope and I looked at her curiously as she delivered it. I could tell by the look in her eye this was going to be something incredible but had no concept of what it may be. Maybe plane tickets somewhere exotic for the upcoming summer, before I left for college. It could have been some tickets for all of us to go see an amazing play.
My mom had always been a skilled gift-giver, not only because she always knew exactly what we wanted but she had a flair for how she delivered the treat. One Christmas, my sister had been dying for a pair of Ugg boots and, that morning, my mom handed her a single card with a clue written inside - she was being sent on a scavenger hunt around the house. The hunt lasted at least 20 minutes with my sister giggling and running around finding the next clue, and then the next until she found the boots hidden on a stuffed animal and screamed with excitement.
That day, as she passed me the envelope, I knew this gift was going to be something I wanted more than anything and still had no clue what that could be. I opened it carefully, slowly bending the metal prongs and gently removing the papers it contained. Scanning the documents, I only grew more confused. I saw my name and then my parent’s names and then a single word that made everything clear - “Adoption.” After living with my aunt & uncle on and off for years and considering them my parents, I was actually going to be adopted.
When I was around fifteen was the first time I asked them if I could call the “mom” and “dad,” and although they had agreed, they had also explained I couldn’t be adopted, not yet at least. If we had pursued adoption while I was still a minor, my birth mother, who was my aunt’s big sister, could fight us to regain custody of me. The idea of returning to her world devastated me, and the fact that she was still keeping me from what I truly wanted was just another reason to add to the long list of reasons I despised her. But I knew they were right, so I settled for just the titles - “mom” and “dad.” That’s who they were to me and that was all that really mattered.
Eighteenth birthdays are important for so many reasons. Becoming a legal adult, leaving home for new adventures, and, for me, legally becoming a part of the family I adored. Six months later, when we stepped into that courtroom, I towered above most everyone else because, one, I was always tall for a girl at five foot nine inches. And two, most of the others in attendance were younger than ten years old. I envied each of them for joining their families at such a young age. Looking back, I hope they know how lucky they were to have that chance.
When the judge asked us if we condoned this arrangement, we excitedly agreed. Then, per tradition, he invited me to select a stuffed animal from the box of donated toys. Initially, I nearly declined, it seemed silly for me, an adult, to take a toy that was intended for the little ones in the room. But my dad stopped me and said, “Take one, this is our day too and you should have this reminder.” So I looked in the box and chose one that made us both laugh - it was a Garfield the cat stuffed animal with suction cups attached to each of his four paws so he could adhere to a window. And on his rear was a button that read, “Stuck on You,” with little hearts. I stuck it on the window in the backseat of my dad’s car on the way home and stared at it for the whole drive.
I lost my dad five years ago and recently found that Garfield stuffed toy in a an old box and when I looked at it, I could still hear his voice urging me to take a memento that day. He was right, and I still need that reminder in my life. It takes me back to the courtroom that day, squeezing both of their hands as they agreed to call me theirs for the rest of our days. It takes me back to the restaurant on my birthday when I first opened the envelope that changed everything. It takes me back to that day when I was fifteen and asked them for more than they could give me at the time. It takes me back to when I was still living with my birth mother, the day I ran to the payphone in a nearby park and made a phone call that redirected my life. The day I asked if I could live with them, not just while my birth mother was in jail, not just for a visit, but forever. They agreed without question because they were my parents even then, and parents always do what’s best for their children.