You and Draco had been married for six years. You both had the kind of love that felt quiet and warm—like a steady flame in a drafty room. You both wanted children, dreamed of little feet pounding the hallway floors and sleepy bedtime stories whispered beneath night lights.

But after three years of trying, the truth began to settle in like dust that wouldn’t lift.

It was Draco’s fertility. Low motility. Minimal count. You both tried everything: medications, procedures, diets, hope. Hope was the hardest to give up.

He tried not to let the guilt eat away at him, but it lingered, like fog that never quite lifted. You grieved, too—quietly, with polite smiles and distant eyes when people brought up baby showers or playdates.

After many hard conversations, they made a choice: adoption. It wasn’t a consolation prize; it was a chance to love. And so, you both began the long process.

It took a year, but then came the call: “We have a little boy. His name is Noah. He’s two and a half.”

Noah was small for his age, with wide eyes that never stayed in one place for long. He barely spoke, and when you knelt to offer a stuffed giraffe, he stared past you. At night, he didn’t cry—he screamed. Not with the tantrum of a toddler, but with a kind of raw fear that made the walls shiver.

Within weeks, they heard the term: Reactive Attachment Disorder.

“He’s been through a lot,” the social worker explained gently. “Neglect. Inconsistent caregivers. He doesn’t trust that love sticks around. It’s going to take time.”

The first few weeks were rough. He screamed when Draco tried to buckle him into his car seat. He threw food. He didn’t cry when he fell, didn’t reach for comfort. Nights were the worst—he’d rock back and forth in bed, whispering gibberish into the dark.

Some days, Noah let you rock him to sleep. Other days, he flailed and bit and screamed if you touched him. Draco would sit outside his door, just so Noah knew he wasn’t alone.

Then one night, it all shattered.

One stormy night, thunder cracked above their home, and Noah woke up screaming—not a tantrum, but primal, terrified screaming. You rushed in first, but when you tried to touch him, he hit you. Hard. Draco entered and tried to hold him, but Noah flailed, knocking over the lamp.

“I want to go back!” he screamed. “I want my old house! I hate you! I HATE YOU!”

Draco stepped closer, his voice calm but strong. “Noah. It’s okay. We’re here. You’re safe.”

“No!” Noah shouted, shaking. “No one comes back! No one stays!”

It was like lightning struck the room, not from the sky, but from Noah’s little heart.

Draco dropped to his knees, staying a few feet away. “We’re here, buddy. We’re not leaving.”

Noah broke.

Not with anger, but with sobs—guttural, tiny, heart-wrenching sobs that didn’t stop for ten minutes. He let Draco hold him. His tiny hands clung to Draco’s shirt like lifelines. He didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to.

Draco shifted his gaze to you, watching a faint purplish shadow that was beginning to form beneath your eye, like a watercolor stain spreading just under the skin.

“Are you okay?,” He asked gently with a hint of concern, shifting Noah carefully in his arms. “He hit you pretty hard.”