Before I Called You Mine

by Nicole Deese

  I’d convinced myself for years that words like that—passionately scripted lines spoken from the mouths of my favorite movie actors and book characters—would never be directed at me. That my specific journey wouldn’t include a sweeping romantic gesture or a heart-stopping rescue. And I was okay with that—I was prepared for that.

  Which meant that in no way was I prepared for this.

  “Joshua.” Gingerly, I wrapped my fingers around his wrists, needing to break his intimate caress of my face. I couldn’t think with him this close, with his soul-stirring gaze examining the depths of my heart. “I love you, too.” Only this profession of love—my profession of love—wasn’t layered in hopeful anticipation of a future together but rather anchored in heartache and buried under a thick blanket of remorse.

  The conviction I’d been fighting against for weeks had won.

  Becoming Joshua’s wife wasn’t a difficult image to conjure up, nor would his last name be a difficult one to wear. He wasn’t wrong in thinking we could make it work—a lightning-fast, justice-of-the-peace procedure in which we exchanged vows and rings, all while I held the hand of a frightened little girl who wouldn’t have a clue what was going on around her. The significance of her new mother’s wedding day would be lost on her in the moment, but the impact wouldn’t. It would simply be one more decision made on her behalf that would have lasting implications on her future.

  Making a marriage work just so we could avoid the hurt of saying good-bye was a proposal I couldn’t say yes to. Convenience and desperation weren’t the ingredients for a healthy marriage or a healthy family life. I knew that better than most.

  Though what Joshua and I shared felt right in so many ways, our timing was off.

  “We can’t get married.”

  “Sure we can. I’ll manage the details so you can focus on the adoption. We can do both.”

  “Joshua.” And this time, when I said his name, he heard me. The land of the double-minded where I’d pitched a tent and set up camp was now deserted. “Think about this for a minute. We’ve only known each other for seven weeks.”

  “My parents only knew each other for a month before they married.”

  “And was their first year of marriage dedicated to attaching to a child who once lived in an orphanage overseas?”

  His determined gaze slipped from my face.

  “No,” I said, answering for him. “Your parents, like the majority of newly married couples, likely spent those first years figuring each other out. Learning what made the other smile and laugh, about what buttons triggered their partner’s fears and past hurts. They were focused on their spouse, which is exactly how a marriage should be.”

  He reached for me, gripping my upper arms. “There are exceptions to every best-case scenario.”

  “But do you really think an exception should be applied to a marriage? Or to the adoption of a child who’s experienced more life trauma than you and I can even imagine?”

  He closed his eyes, his silence an unspoken answer.

  I’d spent the better part of a month questioning my ability to hear and understand God’s plan for my life. And while I didn’t have all the answers, there was one I did have: God hadn’t called me to be a wife before He’d called me to be a mother. It wasn’t a sequence that followed the traditional model of a family, but God had asked me to trust Him. And that was the one thing I hadn’t done, not completely.

  “There has to be another way.” The defeat in his voice stabbed me with remorse.

  “There was,” I said. “Only, when that way got too hard, I chose my own.”

  My sister’s opinion of me hadn’t been wrong after all. I was a broken person, full of dysfunction and conflicting desires. I’d shifted blame, pointed fingers, and fueled the fire of my self-righteousness time and time again by justifying my actions . . . even at the cost of the people I loved most.

  And nearly at the cost of an orphaned child in need of a mother.

  Hollowed to the core, tears tripped down my cheeks. “I knew the sacrifices involved in saying yes to an adoption when I applied, but once I met you, once I had you, I didn’t want to let you go. I’ve been so self-focused, blinded by my own desires and . . . I’m sorry.” My throat barely scratched out the words, though I could have said them a million times over and it wouldn’t have felt like enough. “I’m so, so sorry I’ve hurt you.”

  My rebellion had felt so right, so justified in the moment, and yet all it had managed to produce in the end was misguided hope and two shattered hearts. I covered my face with my hands, too ashamed to see the damage my willful disobedience had caused him.

  I expected him to leave, to walk out the door and close it behind him without a single look back. I deserved worse. But instead, Joshua took me in his arms and allowed my shame to soak his shirt, offering me a mercy I could never repay.

  And there, in that broken, repentant place, the missing peace—the one George Avery had spoken of in his kitchen when he said yes to his calling for the second time—washed over me, too, and granted me the courage to say yes, for the second time, to mine.

  chapter

  twenty-nine

  FIVE WEEKS LATER

  My feet shuffled to a stop as Jenna’s guiding hand tugged gently on my shoulder. “We’re here.” If my best friend were a balloon, she would have burst by now, confetti hearts exploding like rain. “You can take the blindfold off, Lauren.”

  I had absolutely zero idea where here was, but my fingers obeyed her suggestion, groping for the knot at the back of my head. She’d insisted I put the glittery bandanna over my eyes when she kidnapped me from my classroom and escorted me through the parking lot. Wherever she’d taken me, this destination had involved a lot of figure eights and sudden stops.

  The knot loosened in my grasp, and slowly the bandanna fell away. Like a newly released prisoner seeing the sun for the first time in ages, I squinted as familiar fluorescent lights spilled over me. I blinked to adjust my vision, then gasped. Several dozen people—friends, colleagues, adoption group members—clapped and hollered with the enthusiasm of a live game show audience.

  Their voices lifted in a unified “Surprise!”

  My hand fluttered to my mouth. “Oh my goodness. What? What is—?”

  “Happy surprise adoption shower, Lauren!” Gail emerged from the crowd and pulled me close.

  “What? Are you serious? I can’t believe you guys did this!” A few of my work friends hugged me, showing me how they’d captured my deer-in-the-headlights expression on their cameras. No doubt that face would be featured on the front page of the next Brighton newsletter.

  One brief glance over their heads had confirmed my family wasn’t in attendance. And while I felt the quick sting of disappointment at their absence, I wouldn’t let it dim the progress we’d made recently with our baby-step interactions over the last few weeks. The acceptance of my daughter’s match email had pushed my pride to the side, and I decided early on that I wasn’t going to keep her a secret from my family this time around. No matter how distant we’d become, I’d soon have a daughter who would bear my name—and theirs, too. She was worth trying to bridge the gaps in our broken communication.

  Lisa had replied back with a video message less than an hour after I’d sent them all an email with my daughter’s picture and the bullet-point details about my upcoming trip to China. Iris jumped up and down over the news of a female cousin her age as she rattled on and on about all the things she’d teach her as soon as we were back home. The list included ballet, rock painting with real acrylic paints, and, of course, how to play “veterinarian” with Grandma’s grumpy cat. I’d laughed, knowing Lisa’s approval was hiding somewhere behind my niece’s enthusiasm. True to my mother’s lack of fanfare over most things in life, she simply replied to my email with a single question: Can you do FD this Sun eve?

  To which I’d readily replied: Yes, I’d love to come for family dinner. Thank you, Mom. I’m sorry I’ve been so distant. The words tha
t still remained unsaid I wanted to say to her in person: And I’m sorry for hurting you.

  “You really had no idea, did you?” Jenna linked my arm through hers before turning her head in Gail’s direction. “I literally drove her in circles around the parking lot for at least ten minutes. Even turned on my blinker and complained about the non-existent stoplight.”

  Gail laughed. “I knew you’d be the perfect one to distract her as the guests showed up. Good work, Jenna.”

  “Wait . . .” I began, looking between them, still flabbergasted they’d managed to pull this off without me knowing. There had to be at least . . . fifty, sixty people here? “How long have you been planning this?” They exchanged a mischievous grin. Obviously, the two had been in cahoots for some time.

  I scanned the entirety of the room, overwhelmed by the detail of the color scheme—pinks, corals, teals, and accents of rose gold. The same cheerful colors in my daughter’s bedroom.

  Last weekend, Gail had organized a painting day at my house. A couple of the women from adoption group had showed up, paint rollers and blue tape in hand. We’d snacked on pizza, soda, and chips like teenage girls at a sleepover. Lighthearted conversation had been the perfect distraction as we’d rolled over every last inch of Cadet Blue with Sherbet Coral, an act that led to my heart’s prayer for Noah and his new family: Bond them quickly, Lord, and bless their home with love and laughter.

  “I think we started planning the shower about a month ago or so,” Jenna answered, pulling me off the current track of my reflections and setting me on a different one, one that traveled the timeline of accepting a little girl as my daughter . . . and saying good-bye to a man I’d come to love.

  For the first few weeks, I’d kept my phone in the junk drawer in my kitchen at night, replacing it with a dusty alarm clock I should have sold in a garage sale long ago. But leaving it on my nightstand would have made it way too easy to reach for in those uninhibited minutes between sleep and awake, dream and reality. The temptation to text him, to check in, to connect with him—even in the smallest of ways—had been nearly unbearable. But now, while the hollowed portion of my chest was still just as vacant, somehow, someway, I’d made peace with the phantom pangs left in my heart.

  A flock of congratulating loved ones swarmed me at once, asking a million questions a minute about travel dates and work leave and meal train sign-ups and all the itinerary details surrounding Adoption Day. After repeating the same answers several times over, Gail came to my rescue, offering a conversational life raft.

  “Hey everyone, let’s give Lauren a chance to decompress for a moment while you help yourselves to refreshments. I’m sure she’ll bless us all with the details of her upcoming adventure in April.”

  April seventh. Just over eight weeks from today.

  I mouthed a silent thank you as Jenna whisked me to a chair decked out with so much bling and fabric it could have been featured on a tween girl’s makeover show. Really, my friends had gone above and beyond. Their kindness would be stored in my heart for decades to come. Gail ushered the crowd toward the refreshments table under a massive metallic balloon banner, letting me know she’d save a glittery pink cupcake for me. At the end of the table, my gaze caught on a mountain of prettily wrapped gifts.

  “Jenna.” I yanked on her arm and pointed at the pile. “Those can’t all be for—”

  “Aria.” Jenna smiled and nodded unashamedly, my heart tripping over itself at her use of my daughter’s newly chosen American name. Every time I heard it, the memory of her sweet raspy voice singing on a video I’d watched a hundred-plus times hummed through me like the healing remedy for a weary soul—which was exactly what Aria meant: Song.

  Her breathy rendition of “Jesus Loves Me” had provided the strength to lean into the hard and find the hope awaiting us both.

  Aria Fei Bailey.

  My daughter.

  “This is all just so beautiful, Jen. Thank you for doing this.”

  She blew me a comical kiss. “Don’t thank me quite yet.”

  The playfulness in her tone caused me to raise a suspecting eyebrow. “Jen . . . what does that mean?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Just a gift I’m hoping might arrive.”

  “You’ve already given me the best gift I could ask for—you didn’t need to do anything else for me.” If I ever doubted Jenna’s support of my adoption, I’d only have to recall the way she’d squealed when I asked her to consider traveling to China with me. Her yes had come without hesitation, even after I’d explained she’d have to take roughly two and a half weeks off from work. But like most things with Jenna, once she’d made a decision, there was no convincing her otherwise.

  “Nope, you’ve got it all wrong. Going to China with you is a gift to me. I’ve already started making packing piles all around my house. Brian is going crazy.” She shook her head and scanned the room. “Anyway, I kind of went out on a limb, and I’m honestly not even sure if . . .”

  And then it was Jenna’s turn to be at a loss for words. Staring at the double doors at the back of the room, she pressed her lips together, letting the tiniest curve of a smile pucker her cheeks.

  I followed her gaze, and as if in slow motion, my mind worked to process what my eyes focused on. The instant comprehension took root, my feet were moving. Because my mother—my mother, who despised social gatherings of every kind and who hadn’t even attended Lisa’s baby shower for Iris—was standing at the back of the auditorium, my sister at her side, with a gift bag clutched in her hand.

  On instinct, I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and pulled her in for a brief but long-overdue hug. I’d spent a lifetime logging her lack of maternal characteristics and not nearly enough time on the unique qualities she did possess as my mother. Her absence had shifted and humbled my thinking, or perhaps I owed this shift in thinking to the many prayers God had been answering over the last few weeks. Whichever the case, I no longer wished her to be someone she wasn’t; I simply wished her here.

  In this room, and in my life.

  “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I whispered into her cropped, wiry hair. “For all the ugly things I said to you. Please forgive me.”

  The returned pressure of her hand on my upper back opened up a chasm of warmth inside my chest.

  “We’re family, Lauren,” she said on the tail end of a firm pat. “We don’t need to say all that to each other.”

  I stepped back, giving her the space I knew she needed. “No, Mom, I need to say it because we’re family.” Whether or not she’d ever admit it, my harsh words had wounded her. She deserved my apology, and even my gratitude. Was she a perfect mother? No. But I wouldn’t be one, either. Not even my beloved Gail could live up to such a lofty title. Very soon I’d be in need of the same grace.

  The look my sister offered revived something inside me. “I have a few bags of things to give you—for Aria. They’re out in my trunk. Some fancy play dresses Iris grew out of a while back, some shoes, and some newer toys, too. It was the first time she didn’t throw a fit about having to clean her room.”

  “Thank you,” I said, hoping this was a new beginning in our relationship, too. I’d prayed for a second chance with them—a chance to live out my faith in a way that honored both my heavenly Father and my family. “That means a lot, Lisa.”

  “Sure, of course.” She nodded and took in the room. “Please tell me there will be cupcakes at this party.”

  Chuckling, I pointed to Jenna, whose sparkling eyes were still trained on our trio. “Jenna would never throw a party without them.”

  Lisa touched Mom’s shoulder before heading to the refreshment table. Jenna greeted her there, pointing out the array of treats she’d collected for today’s events as Lisa filled her plate. Feeling my mother’s heightening anxiety over a crowd of strangers, I gestured to a grouping of chairs near a back table, knowing that would be her preference, when she placed a hand on my forearm and stopped me.

  In all my life, I couldn’t remembe
r a single time my mother’s eyes had glistened with tears, outside of the day she’d told us about my father’s accident. Yet even then, she’d swiped at them as if batting away an annoying gnat. But these tears were different. She made no effort to blot them out or whisk them away. She simply leveled her gaze on mine.

  “I do care,” she said. “Not only about the money you save for your future—but about your life, too. All of it.”

  I covered her hand with mine as a single tear trailed her cheek.

  “I know, Mom. I know.”

  Her gaze drifted momentarily, and I wished I could pull back the cover on her practiced, veiled expression. “We’re . . .” She swallowed. “We’re excited to meet your daughter—both your father and me.”

  Your father and me. A phrase I’d so rarely heard, yet even at my age, the words filled me with a security I’d craved since childhood. “Thank you. That means a lot. I’m excited, too.”

  As Lisa set a plate at the back table, we moved toward it.

  “And you’ll send us updates? From China, I mean?” A question that sent a thrill through my entire nervous system.

  “Yes,” I said. “I promise I will.”

  A simple nod, along with the handing off of her gift bag, and then Mom was sitting with Lisa at the table, steering the conversation back to closet work. And for once, I was more than okay with that, because my mother had just given me a gift far more valuable than whatever present she’d purchased for my daughter.

  “Lauren?” It was my principal, Mrs. Pendleton. “A few of us have to duck out early for a staff meeting, but we’d love to watch you open our gifts first. The faculty went in together on something for Aria.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Of course, but honestly, Mrs. Pendleton, I wasn’t expecting you to organize a gift for us. You’ve already spent so many hours helping me sort out my maternity leave and—”