It?s early morning and like all mornings where silence is golden, I step quietly across the hall and peek into the room of my son, a precocious 6-year-old boy I?ll call P. He is sprawled out on his bed like a starfish amongst the ?Underwear Crew??stuffies sporting his old underpants?and snoring contently. On the wall beside his bed a sign reads: ?Let him sleep, for when he wakes he will move mountains.? It’s a reminder of the day ahead. 
Looking around his room littered with books, flashlights, and pieces of Lego, I can?t help but think that just less than three years ago, this was the upstairs storage room. A room that my husband and I had designated for our future child when we purchased the house in 2010, but was uninhabited and cluttered with junk for years: First, while my husband battled cancer and then through five years of unsuccessful fertility treatments that derailed our plans to start a family.  It was a Sunday afternoon in early spring of 2019 when we first met P at his foster home. He was just a little more than 3 years old. This was already the second home in his short life so far. He lived with his birth mom for 18 months before she signed off her rights as a parent to the York Children?s Aid Society and P was declared a Crown Ward. 
I looked down the front hallway to see our son sitting in a high chair in the kitchen eating a snack. My heart swelled and I was overcome with tears of joy and a release of weeks of nervousness about this meeting that I...