Chapter 20 - Meeting June
Hattie did not meet June immediately.
She wanted to.
Then did not.
Then wanted to again.
That was why we waited.
Dr. Cole recommended letters first.
Photographs.
Questions.
No countdown.
For eight months, they exchanged letters through the agency.
Hattie asked:
Do you have pets?
June:
Two dogs and a cat who believes she owns both dogs.
Hattie:
Did I kick in your tummy?
June:
Constantly.
Hattie:
Did you name me Hattie?
June:
No. I called you Bean before you were born. Mara and your dad chose Hattie.
Hattie loved that.
For a month I was required to call her Bean.
I regretted transparency.
At eight, Hattie said:
“I want meet.”
We planned carefully.
Neutral place.
Children’s museum café.
Ninety minutes.
June brought no gifts except a small photograph album containing pictures of herself as a child, because Hattie had asked what she looked like at seven.
I sat nearby.
Not between them.
June arrived first.
When Hattie saw her, she stopped walking.
June did too.
Neither adult forced a hug.
June said:
“Hi, Hattie.”
Hattie whispered:
“Hi.”
Then stared.
“You have my nose.”
June laughed and cried at the same time.
“So I’ve been told.”
Hattie looked at me.
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
The meeting was awkward.
Beautiful.
Boring.
All at once.
They talked about dogs.
School.
June’s job.
Hattie asked:
“Why adoption?”
June answered in age-appropriate language.
“I loved you, and I didn’t believe I could give a baby the stable home I wanted you to have then. I chose Mara and your dad.”
“Regret?”
June took time.
“I miss the life I might have known. I do not regret that you were safe and loved.”
That was a mature answer.
Hattie did not fully understand it.
She did not need to.
At the end, June asked:
“Would a hug be okay?”
Hattie thought.
Then nodded.
One hug.
No violins.
Then Hattie came home with me.
May you like
Her home had not changed.
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