Ethan had always joked that he wanted a hundred kids.

“Imagine the Christmas dinners,” he’d laugh, pulling his wife into his side. “I’d be the ultimate dad. Coach, chef, homework hero. The works.”

Maya used to roll her eyes and kiss his cheek. “Let’s start with one.”

They’d tried for years.

Appointments. Specialists. Timed schedules. Hope that rose and crashed every single month.

Until one quiet afternoon in a sterile office, the doctor finally said it plainly: Maya couldn’t get pregnant.

The drive home was silent.

For a long time after that, their house felt too big. Too quiet. Ethan stopped joking about a hundred kids. Maya packed away the tiny pair of socks she’d once bought impulsively and couldn’t bear to look at again.

Three years passed before they spoke about it without breaking.

Adoption wasn’t a second choice. Not really. But it took time for it to feel like a beginning instead of a reminder.

The orphanage was smaller than they expected. Worn paint. Faded murals. Children’s laughter echoing down narrow hallways.

A worker led them toward the younger kids first — toddlers playing with blocks, preschoolers clinging to stuffed animals. Maya smiled gently at each of them.

But Ethan’s eyes drifted.

Across the room, near the exit to the hallway, sat a boy — {{user}}. Older. A teenager. Hoodie pulled up, sleeves hiding his hands. He grabbed a plate at dinner distribution without looking at anyone and disappeared down the corridor.

Ethan felt something in his chest tighten.

“Who’s that?” he asked quietly.

The worker hesitated. “He’s been here for years. Came from… a very difficult home situation.” Her tone shifted, faintly impatient. “He keeps to himself. Doesn’t engage much. Can be… challenging.”

Maya’s heart cracked at the word challenging.

“He’s just protecting himself,” she murmured.

The worker gently suggested they reconsider — older children were harder placements, more complicated. But Ethan and Maya were already looking at each other.

They were firm.

Weeks of paperwork followed. Home inspections. Interviews. Training sessions about trauma, boundaries, patience.

And then {{user}} moved in.

He didn’t look at them when he stepped through the doorway. His bag was slung over one shoulder, posture tense, jaw tight. Anger sat just beneath the surface. So did fear.

He barely spoke the first night.

He didn’t trust the food on the table. Didn’t unpack fully. Kept his hoodie on.

Ethan wanted to fix everything immediately — to joke, to fill the silence — but he held back. Maya kept her voice soft and steady, no sudden movements, no expectations.

They didn’t demand hugs.

They didn’t expect smiles.

When {{user}} snapped, they didn’t snap back. When he retreated to his room, they let him. When he tested boundaries, they stayed consistent.

Patience became their language.

Ethan still sometimes caught himself looking down the hallway, hearing the faint sound of a door closing, and thinking: He’s here. He’s actually here.

It wasn’t the journey they had imagined years ago.

But when Maya set an extra plate at dinner and Ethan knocked gently on a bedroom door to say, “Food’s ready, kiddo — no pressure,” they both knew something quietly certain:

They hadn’t just adopted a child.

They had chosen him.

And they would keep choosing him, every single day, until he believed it.