Margot, Dan, and I went to talk with our adoption counselor this evening. Somehow, the conversation turned to the day that Margot came home.

The motel where we met Margot’s birth mother and her parents, and where we waited that interminable afternoon for her arrival, has been demolished and a shopping center has been built in its stead. Dan and I both feel the loss of a personal landmark. Maybe there is a Home Depot there now instead. Ugly thought. Maybe the motel was where the Olive Garden is now. This is more palatable (so to speak). Margot has been to this Olive Garden and likes it.

But the story of her arrival.

A nurse or case worker from the adoption agency was going to pick her up at the hospital in Rhode Island and meet us there at maybe 11am. Of course Dan and I arrived early. No nurse. But we weren’t worried; we were early. We settled onto the leather sofas by the fireplace in the lobby to wait. And we waited. And waited. And waited.

11am. 11:30. 12 noon. Maybe we should call. But we don’t want to appear paranoid. We don’t want to give the agency the wrong impression. 12:30. Okay, we’ll call. We do call. We make contact. Don’t worry, they tell us. Just a late start. She should be there by 1. Okay. 1pm. 1:30. 2pm. Maybe we should call again. Can they take the baby away if we appear too anxious, too neurotic? We’ll wait. 2:30. We call again. Oh, they tell us, there was some delay [I forget what]. She should be there soon. Really.

3pm. The nurse appears at the door. The car is just outside. She has our daughter. Dan and I rise from the couch. We are two feet from the floor. We float outside. In the back seat of the car, there is a baby seat. A tiny, tiny baby is strapped inside, sleeping. She is the most beautiful thing we have ever seen.

We are crying. The nurse takes the baby from the car and puts her in my arms. My baby.

My baby.