Part 5 — Fighting to Become Her Father
Meredith approached the adoption fight like we were going to war.
“Guardianship documents first,” she announced one morning. “Then financial planning. Then medical directives. Then letters from the school and pediatrician.”
She paused.
“If necessary, we bribe the mailman.”
“That sounds illegal.”
“I’ll bake him cookies.”
“That sounds like bribery with extra steps.”
“He’ll never know.”
Within days, I’d named Meredith as Carrie’s future guardian in case anything happened to me.
I drew up detailed financial plans.
Updated my will.
Collected letters from teachers, neighbors, doctors, anyone who could speak to the life Carrie and I shared.
By week’s end, the folder was thick enough that I joked it could stop a bullet.
Ms. Martinez stayed cautious.
I couldn’t entirely fault her for it.
“Daniel,” she told me during one meeting, “my job requires me to imagine the worst possible outcome for Carrie.”
“The worst thing already happened.”
She looked at me.
“Her mother died.”
I leaned forward.
“Everything we’re doing now is about helping her survive what comes after.”
Ms. Martinez wrote something on her pad.
I decided not to ask what.
Dr. Weller also wrote a letter supporting the adoption.
But something about him seemed increasingly off.
When he handed me the letter, his fingers shook.
“You all right?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Cardiac scare earlier this summer. Nothing major.”
“You should retire before I do.”
That kind of joke normally earned at least a reluctant smile.
Not that day.
Instead, he looked away.
Then said quietly, “My old mentor retired recently.”
“The specialist?”
He nodded.
“The one who originally handled your case.”
Something about his expression felt wrong.
But grief had scrambled every instinct I had.
I assumed he was dealing with his own troubles.
Meanwhile, Carrie developed her own system for coping.
She reorganized my medications.
Every bottle got a colored sticker.
Blue for mornings.
Yellow for afternoons.
A tiny cartoon cat for nighttime pills.
“Why the cat?” I asked.
“Cats understand sleep.”
There was no arguing with that.
One afternoon at the grocery store, a woman noticed my medication organizer and asked Carrie if I was doing okay.
Carrie nodded confidently.
“He’s medically inconvenient.”
The woman blinked.
Carrie patted my arm.
“But emotionally excellent.”
I nearly dropped the cereal box.
At night, Meredith called and read legal paperwork aloud.
“Section 4B,” she’d say solemnly.
“Oh good. My favorite.”
“You haven’t heard it yet.”
“Build suspense.”
“You are unbearable.”
“Love you too.”
And somehow, despite everything, we kept going.
