Read When You Least Expect It for Free Online Page B

asked. “You’re kidding me, right? Who the hell is against adoption? It’s like being anti-puppy.”
    “Actually, they don’t like dogs much, either,” I said. “Look, it’s not that they’re anti-adoption, at least not for other people. But when it comes to them, to their family, to me, I don’t think it would be their first choice.”
    India let go of my hand. “It wasn’t our first choice, either,” she said quietly.
    “I know,” I said. I drew in a deep breath, and, after several long beats, I said, “Okay.”
    “Okay what?”
    “Okay, I’ll talk to them.”
    “Are you sure?” India asked, her brow puckering with worry.
    I nodded. “What’s the worst that can happen? That I’ll be confirming all of my dad’s predictions that giving up my corporate job was the worst mistake I could possibly make, and that I’d end up a washed-up failure, crawling to him for money? It’ll probably make his year. You know how he loves to be right.”
    “You are not a failure,” India said sharply. “And you’re not crawling anywhere. You know what? Forget I suggested it. We’ll find a way to raise the money ourselves.”
    “Hey, I was just kidding,” I said. “I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”
    To my mother’s credit, she hardly said anything negative at all when I called to tell her about our adoption plans. There was only one moment of loaded silence, after which she asked in a somewhat tremulous voice if we were planning on adopting “one of those Chinese babies,” which made me thankful that India wasn’t privy to the conversation. In the end, my mother—after a brief consultation with my father, out of my hearing—agreed to lend us five thousand dollars. It was enough to get started.
    Once Mike’s retainer was paid, there was a ton of paperwork for us to fill out, but India threw herself at it with enthusiasm. She spent night after night sitting at our dining room table, pen in hand, filling out forms.
    After a long debate, we decided that we would be comfortable sending the birth mother a yearly photo and written update, but that we did not want to have any post-adoptive meetings, at least not until the child was old enough to decide if that was something he or she wanted to do.
    Next came the home study, which we were both dreading.India insisted we purge all alcohol from the house and put child locks on every single drawer and cabinet door in the kitchen and two bathrooms, which meant that every time I went to get an aspirin, I had to struggle to remember how to open the door to the medicine cabinet. I kept pointing out that the social worker was unlikely to ask to see evidence of childproofing, considering it would be at least a year before we had an actual baby, but India insisted.
    “I want this to go well,” she said nervously. “What do you think I should wear?”
    “Definitely clothes. I’m sure they look down on nudists,” I said, in an attempt to inject some levity into the proceedings.
    India rolled her eyes.
    “What?” I said. “All I did was suggest no full-frontal nudity.”
    “You have to promise me that you won’t make any stupid jokes in front of the social worker,” India said.
    “Okay, okay. I promise I won’t mention anything about nudity,” I said. “Or our voracious porn habit. Or the meth lab we have set up in the garage.”
    India pointed at me. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
    The home study wasn’t nearly as bad as we feared. A frighteningly efficient social worker named Brenda came over to grill us on why we wanted to adopt, what our parenting style would be (I almost made a joke about how sparing the rod spoiled the child, but with a truly heroic effort, managed to stop myself), and what sort of child care we’d arrange for the baby. India surprised me by having good answers to all of these questions. If it had been up to me, I would have been left stuttering and probably making the exact sort of joke India had banned.
    The only