After years of struggling to have a baby, we adopted Luca, a gentle three-year-old with eyes as blue as the ocean. But when my husband went to give Luca a bath, he came running out, shouting, “We have to take him back!” His fear didn’t make sense until I noticed the unusual mark on Luca’s foot.
I never thought that bringing our adopted son home would tear my marriage apart. But now, looking back, I understand that some blessings come wrapped in pain, and sometimes life has a cruel way of revealing the truth.
“Are you nervous?” I asked Dario as we drove to the agency. My fingers kept playing with the little blue sweater I’d bought for Luca, our soon-to-be son. The material felt so soft, and I pictured his small body wearing it.

“Me? No way,” Dario answered, but his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. “I’m just eager to get there. This traffic is driving me crazy.”
He tapped his fingers on the dashboard, a habit I’d seen more often lately.
“You’ve checked the car seat three times already,” he said with a strained laugh. “I think you’re the one who’s nervous.”
“Of course I am!” I smoothed the sweater once more. “We’ve waited so long for this.”
The adoption process had been exhausting, mostly managed by me while Dario poured himself into his growing business.
The paperwork, home visits, and interviews had taken over my life for months as I looked through agency profiles for a child. We had originally hoped for a baby, but the waiting lists were endless, so I began considering older kids.
That’s when I came across Luca’s picture—a three-year-old boy with eyes like a clear summer sky and a smile that could warm anyone’s heart.
His mother had left him, and something in those eyes reached straight into mine. Maybe it was the quiet sadness behind his smile, or maybe it was meant to be.
“Look at this little guy,” I said to Dario one evening, showing him the photo on my tablet. The screen’s light fell across his face as he looked.