My parents abandoned me at 13—years later, my mom froze when the dean called my name.

She looked at me, and I saw something in her eyes that I hadn’t seen from an adult in a long time. Hope, love, commitment.

“Yes,” I said. “Please.”

The paperwork took another week. During that time, Rachel brought photos of her house, talked about the room that would be mine, asked about my preferences for paint colors and decorations. She made plans like I was permanent, not temporary, like I was her daughter, not just a foster placement.

On November 15th, exactly 1 month after my diagnosis, Rachel drove me to her small three-bedroom house on Maple Street. She carried my single bag of belongings, everything I owned in the world, and led me inside.

“This is your room,” she said, opening a door on the second floor.

I stepped inside and stopped. The walls were painted a soft lavender, my favorite color, which I’d mentioned once in passing. There was a new bed with a purple comforter, a bookshelf already stocked with young adult novels, and a desk by the window. On the desk was a framed photo of Rachel and me from the hospital. Both of us smiling at the camera.