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From the beginning, Eddie "belonged." The "few weeks" stretched into months. I knew better than to let Eddie wiggle his way into my affections. He took his medications wide-mouthed. He ate fruit as though an exotic discovery. He greeted each morning in his husky, sleepy voice, announcing, "I need a orange."

One day the social worker called with exciting news. Eddie's mother had released him for adoption. We knew we had become the family Eddie needed. We would adopt him!

But we also knew that both the prevalent notion that foster parents should not adopt the child in their care and my current pregnancy limited our chances to keep Eddie.

Sure enough, the social worker soon told us about a couple with only one son who wanted Eddie—our son, I thought.

In the ensuing weeks, she picked up Eddie regularly for visits with the prospective parents in the local park. I could spy on them, just for a little while, I reasoned, and maybe get their car license number. But I never mustered courage to do it. Neither his birth name nor that of his adoptive parents was divulged.

The big day arrived. We packed suitcases and boxes full of toys and books, new clothes, and notes of instruction—but no photos. If they get Eddie, I reasoned, we get the pictures. The social worker explained to Eddie that he was going to live with his new parents. Cheerful as always, he kissed us goodbye, certainly not understanding he would never return.

In my heart, I knew he would never really leave.

I didn't dare follow them to the social worker's car. Had I started to cry, no one could have pried us apart. Ever. From the porch I watched him run willingly into his new life, his new identity. Choking on a walnut-sized lump wedged in my throat, I pressed a smile to my lips and forced my empty arms to wave and throw kisses. Hugging his teddy bear, he turned to wave to us and his adoring big brother and "twin sister."

Foster families commit themselves to a certain detachment, but as I looked at the rest of the family, their faces betrayed our inability to do so. Attempts to answer their questions and offer explanations fell around us with dull thuds.

"Where's Eddie going?" Marcia asked.

"It's really dumb for him to leave," our 9-year-old, Russell, assessed my feelings precisely. Even the fetus growing within me kicked as if to ask, "Why'd you do that?" Like a death, Eddie's absence robbed us of someone we loved—a death for us, a new start for Eddie.

Looking at his morose family, Ray suddenly suggested, "Let's take a ride—we'll look for Eddie!" We piled into the car. Maybe we'd see them on the road. We'd feel better, just knowing, just seeing him one more time. I could handle it then, I knew. The children pressed their noses against the windows to peer into each passing car.

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