“Are you ready?” Mark asked.
Amythest formed prayer hands and breathed in deeply. “I’m ready.”
“Jordan,” Mark yelled.
“Yeah,” Jordan replied.
“Come here, please. We need to talk to you.”
Thirteen-year-old Jordan’s long legs leaped down the stairs. His neck-length braids swayed. He was always the bright, shy type and usually made the honor roll.
As he entered his teens, he began to flex his social muscles more. Now, he wanted to play sports, something he had shown little interest in before, no matter how many coaches begged him to consider basketball. It just wasn’t his thing.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“Have a seat, Son?” Mark said as he reached out and entwined Amythest’s delicate hand in his rough one, the way he had when they said “I do” 17 years ago at their backyard wedding. It was a small, simple, unadorned ceremony, yet everyone sensed God’s presence. The best wedding gift of all.
“Son, your mother and I have something to tell you.”
“What is it? You’re making me nervous. Did something happen to one of my friends, or…” He looked around the room for his pet German Shepherd. “Where’s Champ?”
“No, they’re fine,” Mark answered softly. Sweat broke out on his upper lip as it always did when he was nervous. He could feel Mithy’s pulse throbbing. It matched his—two pulses beating as one.
“What is it then?”
“Seventeen years ago, your mother and I learned we could never have biological children of our own.” Jordan squinted his brown eyes and tilted his head to take in what Mark was saying. He crossed his arms and began breathing heavily. He knew where this was going, and he didn’t give Mark a chance to finish.
“I’m adopted!” he stuttered. “I’m adopted!” He leaped out of the chair and declared it again, pacing behind it, clenching his head on both sides as if that would keep the shocking news from invading his psyche and heart. “I’m adopted, and you’re just now telling me!” he yelled.
Mithy jumped from her chair. She wanted, no, needed to console him, the way she had countless times whenever he had a boo-boo and wanted Mommy to kiss it and make it better. Except now, he was no longer a little boy. He was a little man, and the boo-boos cut deeper. Her mother’s heart ached because she couldn’t kiss this boo-boo and make it go away.
“Honey, you have to understand,” she pleaded. “We agreed to tell you when we thought you could understand and handle it,” she said, approaching him with outstretched arms.
He stumbled back as she tried to embrace him. “No!” he stabbed his finger defiantly at her. “Don’t touch me. Don’t come anywhere near me, ever! You’re a liar! You’re both liars!” He stormed out the front door. Mithy and Mark on his heels.
“Jordan, please!” they screamed.
Jordan took off running. They couldn’t match his pace. He ran like a caged cheetah set free in the wilderness. He never looked back.
Three Days Later
Jordan entered the house.
“Jordan! My God, where have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you!” Mithy hollered as she, Mark, and Champ ran to him.
They embraced him ferociously, but he didn’t return their embrace. He stood unresponsive as their bitter tears fell onto his black “I Cool” t-shirt. They kissed his face, neck, and the top of his head, saying “I’m sorry” and “I love you” with every touch.
The power of their love began to melt Jordan’s heart and soften his stance. A single tear trickled down his ebony-black cheek, then an outpouring as he leaned into them for strength. They held him up on each side as they helped him to the sofa, the way comrades hold up an injured soldier in times of war.
“I’m sorry,” he said through sobs. “I had to get away. I had to process what you said.”
“Shhh, shhhh. It’s okay, Baby. We understand.” Mithy replied, warmly rocking her only child, the one conceived in her heart.
“We love you. Nothing will ever change that,” Mark said.
“I know,” Jordan said. “I know you adopted me,” he sniffed. “Because you wanted me,” he sniffed again, barely able to speak. “And I want you as my parents.”
Torrential tears fell down their faces as Champ moaned, stationed himself at Jordan’s feet, and nuzzled his head against his best friend’s legs. They cried until it seemed their tear ducts had revolted, adopting the Johnson’s Baby Shampoo slogan, ‘No more tears’.
After a while, Mark finally released Jordan and massaged his temples. “Man, I’ve cried so much I have a headache. I’m going to get some aspirin.”
“Bring us some too,” Mithy said. “Anybody want pizza tonight? No way I’m cooking.”
The End
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