Before I adopted a newborn girl who no one wanted, they thought I was too old, too lonely, and too broken to matter. When eleven black Rolls-Royces arrived at my porch a week later, my preconceived notions about her were completely altered. I never imagined that I would be writing this. Most people believe that women my age should limit themselves to knitting scarves, watching game shows, and waiting for the inevitable. I am 73 years old and widowed. But I didn’t get that kind of finish in life. No, I still have shaky hands when I repeat the story it provided me.
I’m Donna, and I’ve spent nearly 50 years in the same dilapidated home in a little Illinois town. Here, I brought up two boys. This is where I buried my husband. I’ve seen funeral flowers and snow all over this porch. Yes, I have had a full life, but nothing could have prepared me for what transpired following the death of my husband, Joseph.
The quiet fell like a freight train when Joseph passed away. You can’t really prepare for that kind of emptiness after over 50 years of marriage. Even the ticking clock on the wall sounded too loud without him. He had been the one who always kept the coffee pot full, remembered to fill up my car with gas when I forgot, and served as my compass and steady hand. I was still slightly smelling of peppermint and aftershave when I sat on the edge of our bed the night following his death, holding his flannel shirt. I didn’t shed many tears. I simply gazed at the location where his coat once hung on the wall. The home seems to have breathed and gone hollow, and I’m not sure why.
I had taken in a number of strays throughout the years, primarily cats and a few elderly dogs from the shelter that had never been adopted, and they were the only ones making noise. My kids detested that.
One evening, Laura, my daughter-in-law, lighted a lavender-scented candle and angrily said, “Mom, it stinks in here,” holding her nose. My son Kevin added, “You’re turning into some crazy cat lady,” as he looked about as if he was ashamed to be inside.
I saw their pictures on social media, grinning at wine tastings and lake home parties, but they stopped visiting after that, claiming to be busy. Once, my grandchildren stopped over for cookies, but these days, they hardly text me back.
The most difficult time was Christmas. As I sat by the window, watching the snow accumulate on the front steps, I would brew a pot of Earl Grey and ponder how a once vibrant house could be so quiet.
I made an effort. Yes, I did. I joined a club for gardeners. I began working as a volunteer at the library. Even the local fire station received banana bread from me. However, the void Joseph had created was empty. I’ve discovered that grief doesn’t leave; rather, it waits for you in every peaceful moment, living in the hallway.
I felt like a ghost passing past undetected, even in crowded settings.
Then something occurred at church one Sunday morning that altered everything.
I noticed two volunteers whispering near the coat rack while I was assisting with the arrangement of hymn books in the rear room.
Whispering, “There’s a newborn at the shelter,” one said. “A girl. She has Down syndrome. No one’s coming for her.”
“No one wants a baby like that,” the other person said. “Too much work. She’ll never live a normal life.”
I felt the sting of their remarks. I didn’t even consider it. I asked, “Where is she?” as I turned around. Blinking, the younger volunteer said. “Excuse me?”
When I said, “I want to see her,”
I visited the shelter later that afternoon. The tiny space had a subtle formula and antiseptic odor. And there she was, so small, beneath a thin blanket that had faded. As she slept, her lips produced the tiniest little squeaks and her fists were clenched tightly beneath her chin.
Her eyes opened when I leaned over her crib. Large, dark, inquisitive eyes. Something inside of me that I had assumed had long since been numb suddenly burst open as she looked at me as though she were attempting to understand me.
I said, “I’ll take her.”
The room fell silent. Looking up from her clipboard was a woman wearing a red cardigan.
The social worker stumbled, “Ma’am…” “At your age—”
“I’ll take her,” I said once again.
She gave me a long look as if she was waiting for me to retract it. However, I didn’t.
It was like bringing light into a house that had been dark for years when you brought that baby home. However, it was not the case for everyone. Whispering began among the neighbors. They appeared to be watching a strange show as I caught them looking through their blinds. I once heard Mrs. Caldwell mumble, “That crazy widow,” as she was watering her begonias. “First, all those animals, now she’s got a disabled baby?”
Three days later, Kevin arrived, his face flushed with rage. He stormed into my kitchen as if he still had the right to ask, “Are you insane?” “You’re 73! You can’t raise a baby. You’ll die before she even gets to high school!”
I held the infant to my chest while I stood at the stove. Her small hand was clutching my cardigan’s neck like a lifeline.
“Then I’ll love her with every breath until that day comes,” I replied quietly.
Kevin’s expression contorted. “You’re humiliating this family.”
For a moment, I gave him my full attention. I said, “Then you don’t deserve to call yourself family,” and I moved to close the door after him.
I gave her the name Clara. Her name was sewn with purple thread on a small onesie that was in her hospital bag. For me, that was sufficient. Clara. It felt natural.
After a week, she began to smile. It was as though she had been waiting for me to arrive her entire life each time she put her fingers around mine.
I heard the engines precisely seven days later. Not a single one. Many. It’s a deep, strong hum that makes your skin tingle. My breath caught as I walked onto the porch holding Clara.
There were eleven black Rolls-Royces parked in front of my dilapidated little home. Their windows were so darkly tinted that I could not see anything inside, and their chrome sparkled in the midday sun. The doors then opened.
One by one the men in fitted black suits emerged. They appeared to belong to a secret society or high-level government organization. They moved slowly in the direction of my porch. With a raised hand, one of them rapped on my front door.
My knees almost buckled. A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a gentle, enigmatic face walked forward. Despite his calm demeanor, his voice sounded formal.
“Are you Clara’s legal guardian?”
I moved Clara on my hip and nodded gently. “Yes,” I said. My voice sounded raspy. “Why?”
Without saying another word, he took an envelope out of a leather folder and gave it to me. I opened it with trembling hands. Papers were found inside, including a lawyer’s letter and thick, official-looking paperwork with embossed seals.
I took a seat on the porch swing and read the first page while clutching Clara to my chest. Clara was no ordinary stray infant.
According to what I could gather, her birth parents were young, prosperous computer entrepreneurs who lived a fast lifestyle, built an empire, and seemed to be doing it with passion. Only a few weeks after her birth, they perished in a terrible house fire.
Their only child was named Clara. Their sole heir. She inherited everything they owned, including their enormous estate upstate, investments, vehicles, and an astounding bank account. However, everything had been in legal limbo because no one claimed her. Right up until me.
I glanced up at the eleven black automobiles shining like some dreamy dream, and the suited guys standing solemnly on my lawn. I blinked and said, “You mean… she owns all this?”
A younger, spectacled man came forward. “Yes, ma’am. Everything belongs to Clara. And now that you’re her legal guardian, it’s your responsibility to manage it until she comes of age.”
I gazed down at Clara, who was napping with her soft cheek against my chest and a small sigh passing her lips. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh, cry, or pass out.
The lawyers outlined the choices back inside the house. One of them produced a collection of estate photographs and architecture blueprints. The residence had 22 rooms, staff quarters, a pool house, well-kept grounds, and marble floors. Clara had a birthright to everything.
“You and Clara can move in immediately,” someone replied. “We can help hire staff: nannies, nurses, and a house manager. You can raise her in comfort and security.”
I let my mind go wild for a bit. chandeliers. A gold-trimmed nursery. The parlor has a grand piano. Little pancakes shaped like hearts are being prepared by a full-time chef.
Then Clara moved in my arms, whimpering a little, as she always did when she was chilly or wanted to be nearer. The fantasy vanished from my mind like stale bread as I gazed down at her.
It wasn’t love. Money was being used to cover up emptiness.
“No,” I replied, giving Clara a light back pat.
The attorneys blinked. “Ma’am?”
“I’m not raising her in a cage made of velvet. I didn’t take her in to polish her like a trophy. I took her in because no one else would.”
Standing up straighter than I had in months, I inhaled deeply. “Sell the mansion. Sell the cars. All of it.”
“But—”
“I know what I said.”
So we did. And I created two important things with every dime.
Children with Down syndrome would receive therapy, education, and scholarships from the Clara Foundation, which was established in her honor. No child like Clara should ever be told they are “too much work” again, in my opinion.
Second, I finally constructed the animal sanctuary of my dreams. Although it was unpretentious, it was warm, had wide-open spaces, and had space for the stray animals that no one wanted. My house remained the same, but it now stood next to a long barn that was populated by blind cats, one-legged hens, and rescue dogs.
I was referred to as careless. Careless. “You could’ve had everything,” a woman at the grocery store spit out at me. “You’re wasting her future.”
The fact was, though, I had never felt more alive.
Growing up, Clara was surrounded by fur, laughter, and the incessant sound of music and conversation. She could make a donkey blush with her curiosity, inventiveness, and stubbornness.
I would yell, “Clara, no! The cats don’t need glitter!” as she walked by with a trail of glitter from her tiny hands. She painted anything within her grasp, including the kitchen tiles, furniture, and walls.
Her favorite activity was sitting at the piano and proudly plucking out her own melodies, always off-key but with her entire chest.
I was informed by doctors that she might never be able to control her emotions or talk well. Clara, however, disregarded them all.
When she was seven, she kissed a boy in the library, got in trouble, and went on to make friends and attend school.
With a shaky microphone in her hands, she came on stage at a Clara Foundation event at the age of ten and declared emphatically, “My grandma says I can do anything. And I believe her.”
I sobbed so much that night that one of our volunteers almost had to carry me away.
Years passed more quickly than I would have liked. With dark eyes and a smile that could brighten any gloomy day, Clara grew tall and elegant. She began working at the animal refuge full-time when she was 24 years old.
She kept a diary with thorough notes on the peculiarities and moods of each animal, cleaned kennels, and bottle-fed kittens.
Her cheeks were flushed when she entered the kitchen one afternoon. “There’s a new volunteer, Grandma. His name’s Evan.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Is that why you’re suddenly brushing your hair and wearing perfume to the barn?”
She flung a pillow at me while laughing.
Evan also had Down syndrome. Clara’s wild energy was counterbalanced by his quiet, contemplative nature and loving patience. He kept candies in his pocket to give to the dogs and drew animals on a small pad. I saw them gradually fall in love.
Gently. The beginning of all good love.
Then one evening, with his sweaty palms and shirt tucked up, Evan arrived at my door.
He said, “Mrs. Walker,” with trepidation. “I love her. I want to take care of her. Always. May I?”
I approached him and put my arms around him. “Yes, Evan. A thousand times, yes.”
Clara got married in the garden behind our sanctuary last summer. She had a crown of daisies in her hair and was dressed in a plain white frock with lace sleeves. Between the legs of the guests, cats wandered freely. Wearing a blue suit and sneakers, Evan was grinning as he waited at the altar.
Kevin, her brother, did not show up. Laura didn’t either. For me, the fact that they sent a card was sufficient resolution.
However, Evan’s family accepted Clara as though she had always been theirs, laughing, dancing, and crying. Clara grabbed Evan’s hands during the vows and remarked, “You are my person. I choose you.”
And that grin of hers? The sky might have been illuminated.
Sitting in the front seat with a cat in my lap, I reflected on all that we had conquered. The looks. The murmurs. those who accused me of destroying her life.
She won’t be around for a year. No one will ever want that baby.
Nevertheless, she was there, wanting more than anything else.
I’m old now. My back groans. Every time I garden for too long, my knees complain. My kids haven’t called yet. Kevin relocated to Arizona. Laura shares selfies from the beach. I have ceased to check.
However, I don’t require them. Clara is with me. Evan is mine. Wounded things come to my shelter to heal.
I have pictures of children learning to walk, talk, and sing, and letters from families who were awarded scholarships from the Clara Foundation. I got that from Clara.
She gave me a life that was more significant than any inheritance and more potent than any Rolls-Royce.
And I shall leave in peace when the time comes, which is not too far away now.
I chose love over fear, not because I was wealthy, intelligent, or popular. Because when I saw a kid who no one wanted, I said, “I’ll take her.”
Furthermore, she did more than simply save me. She also rescued a thousand others.
Everything I didn’t realize I needed began when her little hand touched mine on that first day.
Perhaps, just possibly, someone may read this and experience that emotional pull.
The whisperer: Take action. In either case, love. Take a chance.
Because sometimes everything can be changed by the tiniest, most undesirable soul.
Do you believe that adopting my dear girl, Clara, was the appropriate decision on my part? If you were in my shoes, what would you have done differently?
