With a heavy heart, I hung up the phone. I'd just set up another agonizing appointment with the adoption specialist and went to my husband. "I want you to brace yourself. They're probably not going to let us have this child because of me. You know what they say about people who have been molested, we're dangerous." I cried for two whole days. On the day of the appointment, the one adoption specialist took my husband outside to the front porch, while the other asked me more very direct questions. Finally I snapped. "If you're not going to let us adopt him, I wish you'd just come out and say it because I know they're only talking about baseball out there." "Is that what you think? Oh, you're going to get him. In fact, I can't think of anyone better for him than you." "Then why are you still grilling me and on things we've already gone over?" "That's because I'm going for my doctorate, and I'm doing my thesis on you. With your background, you shouldn't be able to hold down a job." "Wow It's a d-- good thing nobody ever told me that before." But I guess in hindsight, I shouldn't have been so surprised because when I was ten, alone and homeless, I asked God with my whole heart to please finish raising me. And it wasn't half bad.