We Adopted a Quiet Boy. One Night, My Husband Screamed: ‘We Have to Return Him’ (2 of 3)

A grainy photo of a boy with oversized eyes and hair like a dandelion puff. His name was Sam. Three years old. Abandoned by his mother in the parking lot of a department store. The caseworker’s note said he hadn’t spoken much since. Something about his expression grabbed me—it wasn’t sadness exactly. It was… stillness. Like he was holding his breath and had been for a very long time.

I showed the photo to Mark. He stared longer than I expected. Then he nodded. “Let’s meet him.”

Four weeks later, Sam walked through our front door holding a teddy bear someone else had given him. I will never forget how he looked up at me like he wasn’t sure if I was real. I knelt, smiled, and said, “Hi, sweetheart. Welcome home.”

The first few hours were gentle, quiet. We gave him space, introduced him to the dog, set out his favorite snacks (he only picked at the crackers). When bedtime rolled around, Mark—usually the distant one—surprised me.

“I want to do his first bath,” he said.

I was touched. Maybe this was how we would all heal. How Mark would step into fatherhood fully, not just in title but in presence. But the moment they closed the bathroom door, everything changed. Not sixty seconds later, I heard shouting. Then a crash.

Mark came running out, white as a sheet. “WE HAVE TO RETURN HIM!” he barked.

“What? What happened?” I cried, rushing toward the bathroom.

He stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. His fingers were shaking. “He has bruises. All over his back. What the hell happened to him?”

I froze.

We had been told Sam came from a neglectful environment. But abuse? No one had said anything about physical abuse. I ran in and found Sam huddled in the corner of the tub, clutching his bear, shoulders quivering. I wrapped him in a towel, whispering, “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”