The Moment

After everything — the years, the uncertainty, the doubt — the very last stretch before meeting him was 14 days in a quarantine hotel. It wasn't glamorous, but it was manageable: decent food, my husband working remotely from the room, and me filling the days with yoga, books, and old favorite movies. A strange kind of stillness, right before everything was about to change.

After 14 days, we moved to a resort-style hotel. That first night out — our first proper dinner in two weeks — felt like a small celebration, marking the end of one waiting period and the start of another kind entirely: tomorrow, we would finally meet him. Before that, we did something almost absurdly ordinary: a supermarket run. Diapers, milk, baby wipes, snacks, small pasta, sauce, rice — provisioning for a child we hadn't even met yet.

The next morning wasn't the quiet, private moment I might have imagined. It was a full ceremony — outdoors, with a stage set up — where more than 30 couples, all of whom had quarantined and moved through the resort alongside us, gathered together as officials formally signed the adoption papers. It was strange and moving all at once: a real event, held out in the open, marking the same long-awaited moment for so many families at the same time.

On the first day, we were also invited to an optional lunch at another site — orphanage staff, nannies, adoptive parents, and children all together. We decided not to go. We worried that being surrounded by other children crying, and seeing familiar faces from his old life, might unsettle him further, right when we were trying to help him feel safe with just us. So we skipped it, and stayed close, just the three of us.

Slowly, the children began arriving, one by one. Each family had their own contact person from their agency — the same person who, throughout the long wait, had sent us photos, videos, and updates on our son's wellbeing. That familiar face was the one who finally brought him to us.

His nanny carried him toward us across an open field, alongside the other children. Our contact waved for us to come forward. I recognized him immediately — before anyone said a word, I just knew. He looked curious, taking everything in, and it was obvious he wasn't used to being outside like this; he kept looking around, wide-eyed, as if the whole open field was something entirely new to him.

Since we didn't share a language with his nanny, our contact explained that we were his adoptive parents. She brought him forward and placed him in my arms. He didn't resist — he let me carry him — but he avoided eye contact the whole time. No tears, no fear exactly, just a quiet distance. A two-and-a-half-year-old being asked to trust two total strangers, in a language he couldn't understand, being carried by someone new. Of course he looked away.

I do wonder if it made a difference that I share Asian roots with him — that I looked, at least in some way, like one of his own, rather than a complete stranger from an entirely different world. Around us, other children were crying, clinging to their nannies, clearly distressed at being handed to unfamiliar adults. He wasn't. I can't know for certain why, but I don't think it was nothing.

To ease him through it all, we gave him fruit compote, some toys, and a little time to play before we were all expected to sit for the ceremony — his nanny included, sitting right there with us. Small distractions, small comforts, while something much bigger was quietly being decided around him.

Later that same day, after our small play together, he let my husband carry him too — another quiet sign of trust building, piece by piece. We then went back to the apartment to finish paperwork with the contact person.

Before that day ever arrived, I had read a lot — articles, books, one written by a Korean author that stayed with me. The point that struck me most: if a child is able to let go, even with difficulty, it means they can move forward. Based on that, I made a deliberate decision — not to have a formal goodbye with the nanny, so as not to reactivate his memories of that attachment right as we were trying to build a new one.

So when we got back to our apartment, he cried — the room, the people, everything was unfamiliar. The contact person comforted him while I quickly used toys to redirect his attention. It wasn't seamless. It was managed, gently, moment by moment.

For lunch that first day, we brought him to the hotel restaurant. Soup — something entirely new to him — and he seemed happy, or at least looked it, eating about half.

Looking back now, years later, I understand that "happy half-bowl" differently. I believe he drank half that soup not really out of enjoyment, but out of fear and unfamiliarity. Over the years since, I've come to recognize a pattern in him: when he's unfamiliar or afraid, he either becomes very stubborn and refuses outright, or he simply complies, just to get through it — not necessarily because he wants to.

That first week also gave us our first real glimpse of his personality. He absolutely refused to wear shoes — flat out, no negotiating. It was one of the earliest signs that he was definitely not a follower.