We adopted a little boy who had already been returned by three different families because they said he was “too difficult.”

My husband, Raúl, frowned.

—Why?

The woman hesitated for a moment before answering.

—They say… he’s difficult. He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t follow instructions right away. He doesn’t like being touched or hugged. And he doesn’t cry, even when he should.

She took a deep breath before adding:

—It’s like he’s always waiting to be abandoned again.

I looked at the boy sitting on a small plastic chair on the other side of the room.

His hands rested on his knees. His back was straight, as if he had been trained to take up the smallest amount of space possible.

He wasn’t playing.

He wasn’t asking questions.

He wasn’t even looking around.

He was just waiting.

When our eyes met, he didn’t smile.

But he didn’t look away either.

And something inside me cracked.

They told us we should think about it carefully.

We still had time to choose another child.

There were many others who were “easier.”

We shouldn’t make things harder for ourselves.

Even my sister, who is always emotional, called me that night.

—Rosa, think about it… you’re not young anymore. Why would you take on a problem like this? Sometimes children like that grow up angry at the world.

While I was talking to her, I looked around our small kitchen.

The tiles were old.

There was a table for four people.

But it was rarely full.

Too quiet.

Too tidy.

Too empty.

—Exactly —I replied—. Because no one wants to choose him.

Raúl didn’t say anything that night.

He just sat beside me on the bed, took a deep breath, and held my hand.