Part 6: “The Inspection”
The knock this time was gentler.
Not urgent. Not sharp. Just two taps and a pause, like someone asking permission before stepping into something sacred.
Laurel opened the door to a tall man with a clipboard, a windbreaker that said County Family Services, and eyes that looked tired but kind.
“Ms. Jenkins?” he asked. “Or is it Ms. Ellison now?”
“Laurel Ellison,” she said, offering her hand.
He shook it lightly. “Daniel Hughes. I’m the one assigned to your petition.”
Behind her, Shadow let out a low chuff and settled back onto the rug.
Daniel glanced down. “That the dog?”
Laurel nodded. “That’s Shadow.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow. “The one the school bus driver mentioned? And the neighbor? And the principal?”
“That’s him.”
Daniel smiled. “Seems like everyone already knows him.”
The inspection wasn’t quick. Or easy.
Daniel walked through every room with quiet eyes, jotting notes, opening cabinets, gently lifting curtains like he was checking for ghosts or unspoken history.
Sadie trailed behind him, clutching her stuffed fox in one hand and Shadow’s tail in the other.
The house had been scrubbed top to bottom the day before—Laurel had spent hours dusting corners she never noticed before, scrubbing the bathroom tile with vinegar and a toothbrush, stacking healthy food in the fridge like she was staging a photo shoot for a parenting magazine.
But what Daniel seemed to notice most wasn’t the floors or the groceries.
It was the way Sadie clung to Laurel’s leg when she got nervous.
The way Shadow never let her out of his sight.
The way Laurel waited for Sadie to speak instead of speaking for her.
When the walk-through ended, they sat at the kitchen table.
Daniel glanced at Shadow, who had laid himself like a rug beneath Sadie’s chair.
“Tell me about him,” he said.
Sadie’s eyes brightened. “He followed me home. Every day. After Grandma died.”
Daniel scribbled something. “You ever seen him before that?”
Sadie nodded. “He used to be hers. I think he went away after she passed. Then came back when he knew I needed him.”
Daniel tilted his head. “Dogs don’t usually come back.”
Sadie looked at him steadily. “He’s not usual.”
After Daniel left, Laurel slumped against the doorframe, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath for three weeks straight.
Sadie sat cross-legged on the living room rug, brushing crumbs off her stuffed fox.
“Do you think he liked us?” she asked.
“I think he liked what he saw,” Laurel said.
“Do you think he’ll let us stay?”
Laurel paused, her heart breaking just a little at the word let.
“No one gets to let us be a family,” she said. “We already are. The rest is just catching up.”
Shadow stretched out beside them and gave a low, satisfied groan.
That night, Laurel found the photo album.
It was tucked in a cedar chest at the foot of Elsie’s old bed, wrapped in a crocheted afghan that still smelled faintly of rosewater and old books.
She opened it slowly.
There were baby pictures. Ones of Laurel with her knees skinned and her nose sunburned. Ones of Sadie as a toddler in overalls, feeding Shadow a piece of bread from her high chair.
Laurel smiled at a photo of Elsie in her garden, holding up a misshapen tomato like a trophy.
She flipped through the pages, letting the years wash over her.
On the last page, there was a blank spot. Just one pocket sleeve, empty and waiting.
Laurel slid the most recent photo into it—the one she and Sadie had taken on the porch last week. Shadow sat between them, tongue lolling, a red collar shining like an heirloom.
Then she closed the book and placed it on the mantel.
Right where it belonged.
Two days later, a letter came
It wasn’t flashy. No golden seal or urgent stamps. Just a plain white envelope with a county return address.
Laurel read it alone at first.
Then folded it gently and called for Sadie.
The little girl ran in, Shadow on her heels.
Laurel bent down, held Sadie’s hands, and whispered:
“They said yes.”
Sadie blinked.
Laurel smiled. “You’re officially mine. Every which way.”
Shadow barked once.
And this time, it sounded exactly like joy.