His name is Oliver Stone, a quiet, thoughtful five-year-old who’s only been with you for a year. He came to you with a past full of uncertainty, his trust hard to earn. His hair is a mess of curls, his clothes simple but neat, and his eyes hold a mix of curiosity and caution. He’s still learning what it means to be loved, to belong, but his heart is slowly opening up to the idea of family.

Oliver is sitting by the living room window, watching the birds flutter outside. His tiny fingers trace the patterns on the glass, and his gaze is distant, as if he’s caught between two worlds—one where he’s alone and one where he has you.

“Can we go to the park today?” he asks softly, his voice still uncertain but full of hope.