The Yellow Sock: An Adoption Story by Angela Hunt

people in the reception area beyond. She could have fallen to her knees in gratitude when she realized they had merely stopped taking new arrivals in order to handle those who were still waiting.
    The INS staffer at the main desk recognized them immediately. “You won’t have to wait again,” she promised, glancing toward the caseworker who had spoken to them earlier. “Marcy’s ready for you.”
    With an air of accomplishment, Megan strode over and returned her folder, now complete with fingerprint cards. The caseworker glanced at the documents, stamped their application, then looked up and smiled. “Glad you made it back,” she said, standing. “Now if you will both raise your right hands and repeat after me.”
    Megan had never felt more solemn than in that unexpected moment. Together she and Dave took an oath to protect the child they had petitioned to bring into the United States, then the caseworker handed Megan a sheet of paper. “Go home, fill this in, and return it with a check for the application fee,” she said, her tone cool and professional. But her eyes sparkled as she whispered, “And God bless you.”
    Megan’s heart swelled with gratitude as she accepted the application. Everything was falling into place. Step by step, God was bringing them closer to their baby.
     
     
    They found the first packet of photographs in the mailbox when they arrived home. Though she was dead tired from the trip to Washington, Megan tore open the envelope, then stared at the first picture with unabashed delight. The tiny black and white snapshot in Helen Gresham’s office hadn’t done Danielle justice—this baby was adorable .
    Joe and Susan had taken and developed an entire roll of film—shots of the baby having a bath, wet-haired and big-eyed in the plastic tub, shots of her leaning out of a stroller, shots of her on Susan’s hip. In one picture, Danielle had been propped against pillows and was falling over, her mouth open in what Megan was certain must have been a belly laugh. A deep dimple adorned her left cheek, a glorious smile lit her face, and, Megan realized as she memorized the photos, the robust baby was no frail infant.
    Megan made a mental note to exchange some garments she’d bought earlier in a rush of excitement. This kid was growing like a weed.
    “Come home soon,” she whispered, pressing the photos to her chest. “Come home before you outgrow everything in your closet!”
    After she and Dave studied every single picture, Megan separated several photos and slipped them into envelopes for Dave’s sister, her mother, and her mother-in-law. She set one photo, her favorite, aside for the birth announcement. Tomorrow she’d take it to the drug store and have a zillion reprints made.
    “I cannot wait to hold her and love her,” she whispered to Dave as they sat on the sofa and drank in the details of the remaining snapshots.
    “This little doll will come soon enough,” Dave answered, placing his hand on her hair. “All in God’s time.”
     

Chapter Eight
     
     
    A strong sense of purpose carried Megan through the next few days. Before Joe Hogan’s call, she had existed in a stagnant pool of possibilities; now she felt she and Dave had finally begun to make progress—or, in the words of Samuel Johnson, their sorrow was being lessened by “exercise and motion.” The baby God intended for them was waiting in South Korea, and Megan was determined to do all she could to insure that the time of waiting was as brief as possible.
    With great regret, on the first Monday in August she knocked on Dr. Duncan’s door and gave her notice. She would quit work in two weeks, she told him, because her baby would soon be home. Though they didn’t yet have an exact arrival date, they expected her to arrive in less than six weeks—by the end of September, at the latest.
    “And I have so much to do,” Megan explained, spreading her hands. “I have to shop, and there is paperwork yet to be done, and