MY BIOLOGICAL FATHER HANDED ME A BRAND NEW CAR FOR MY 17TH BIRTHDAY, THEN TOLD MY STEPDAD, “NOW HE KNOWS WHO HIS REAL FATHER IS.”

“I need to ask about something,” I’d told her, standing awkwardly in her small waiting room. “I don’t even know if it’s a real thing you can ask for.”

She’d smiled, the kind of smile that told me she’d heard stranger requests than mine. “Adult adoption is real,” she said. “More common than people think. Tell me about him.”

I remember feeling almost embarrassed by how easily the words came once she asked, like I’d been saving them up somewhere without realizing it.

I’d talked for twenty minutes straight, barely pausing for breath, about algebra and Tuesdays and every game he’d shown up to. She’d taken notes the whole time, nodding occasionally, and by the end she was smiling in a way that wasn’t professional courtesy anymore.

“This is one of the better reasons I’ve heard for filing this kind of paperwork,” she’d told me. “Most people come in here for inheritance reasons. You came in here for a reason that actually matters.”

She’d walked me through the whole process that afternoon, the waiting period, the paperwork, the eventual court date, explaining each step twice to make sure I actually understood it and wasn’t just nodding politely.

“You’ll need his signature eventually,” she’d said. “Not today. Whenever feels right. Some people wait years for the right moment. Something tells me you already have one in mind.”

I hadn’t told her about the birthday yet, not specifically, but she wasn’t wrong.

Marcus pulled me into a hug right there in the driveway, the kind that lasted longer than either of us probably meant it to.

“I need to think about the signature part,” he said, pulling back. “Not because I don’t want to. Because I want to make sure I do it right, when the time actually comes.”

“Take all the time you need,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Mom finally came down off the porch then too, hugging us both at once, a slightly awkward three-way embrace that none of us seemed to mind in the slightest.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what to say for the last five minutes,” she admitted, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I still haven’t landed on anything better than thank you.”

“Thank you for what?” I asked.