“Your Honor….” Dillon cleared his throat and adjusted his tie.
“You can call me Frank,” the judge said, eliciting a laugh from the crowd. “These are fun times. We don’t have to be so formal.”
Dillon relaxed his shoulders. “Great. I’m a little nervous.” His grin, shy yet self-assured and welcoming, warmed me still, after all these years.
“When I first heard I was related to Mikey, I thought it couldn’t be true. I discovered I had a half sister in the Seattle area who’d had a son whom I just happened to meet.” Dillon rested a hand on Mikey’s shoulder. “Something about him bonded us to him…more than blood. He’s a good kid who needs a stable home. My husband and I can provide that for him.” Dillon resumed his seat.
“Your honor?” I said. “Frank?” I slid my chair out and rose. I hadn’t prepared to say anything but felt compelled to.
The judged nodded and opened his arms to encourage me.
“I’d like to say…” I tucked the back of my shirt in. “Um, I would just like to say that….” I exhaled. “Sometimes you cross paths with someone who brings out the best in you.” The court quieted. My nerves kicked up a notch. “Once in a great while, you meet that someone who makes you feel like you have a purpose in life, more so than making money, paying the bills, and getting by. Mikey’s done that for me.” I looked to Dillon and Mikey. “He’s done that for us. I don’t want us to end.”
The crowd clapped, and Dillon squeezed my hand under the table.
The judge rumbled in his throat and sniffled. “Ah, Mr. Farney,” he asked of our lawyer, “for the formality of these proceedings, do you believe the adoption is in the best interest of the child?”
“I most certainly do.”
“Mr. and Mr. Deiss, of course you agree, but for the records I have to officially ask.”
“We do.”
“And what are you requesting Michael’s name to be changed to?”
Mikey leaned forward. “Michael Stephen Deiss, and I agree that’s it’s in the best interest of the child too.”
The judge, not expecting him to answer, chuckled. The crowd joined him. “I’ll get to you in a minute, young man. Mr. and Mr. Deiss”—the judge peered over his black rims—“is this the legal name you agree to?”
Dillon gripped Mikey’s hand. “Michael Stephen Deiss,” he said, and I concurred.
The judge spelled the name for the clerk, a gray-haired woman with a chain hanging from her glasses. She occupied a similar but lower desk beside the judge as she chorded into a stenotype. She blinked and bobbed, listening intently to the judge as he pontificated additional legalese.
“Michael, are you ready to be the official son of this fine couple?” He removed his glasses, his tone less formal, transitioning out of sanctimony.
“Uh-huh.”
Dillon nudged him.
“Yes, sir. I am ready to be the official son of…of the fine couple.” Mikey fidgeted with one of Jack’s folders.
Another pacifying chuckle emerged behind us.
The judge folded his hands and leaned in on his elbows. “Being a son is a big responsibility. You know that?” His head tilted.
“Yeah.” Mikey toyed with the folder more.
“Sometimes they will ask you do things you might not want to do, like your homework, going to bed early, and not taking the car without their permission when you get older.”
A rumble of laughter ensued behind us.
Mikey smiled. “Uh-huh.”
“Great. Well, I think you’ll make a great son.” The judge winked. “Do you have anything else you’d like to add?”
Jack lowered to Mikey’s level. “Go ahead. You can read it now.”
Mikey opened the folder in front of him. “I wrote something.”
We hadn’t expected Mikey to say anything, but apparently he and Jack had worked something out.
Mikey took the note, in his handwriting, from Jack and cleared his throat. “I…I absolutely love my new dads Evan and Dillon and our dog Deet.” His thumbs pressed red against notebook paper. His hand shook a little and his voice was soft. Jack pulled a microphone closer to him. “Should I start over?”
“No, it’s fine.” Jack hugged him.
“Okay.” Mikey returned to the paper with swoops of cursive in pencil and eraser marks dotting the page. “With them, I feel safe, happy, cared for, and loved.” He bounced a leg. “I’ve spent the last three months in their…our…new home in Salem, Massachusetts. They’re my forever family. I can’t imagine…I can’t imagine not having them in my life.” Mikey paused and licked his lips. “I ask the court to approve this message.”
The judge held a hand to his belly and laughed at Mikey’s later statement. “I approve.” We all laughed with him. “I approve, just give me a minute to make it official.”
Michael smiled sheepishly and handed the paper to Jack, who tucked it back into the folder and winked at us.
The judge rattled off more appropriations to the clerk, who resembled a pianist playing a concerto as she typed. “The court finds the consent to the adoption is suitable, and the child is available for adoption,” he said.
More than a month back, Dillon and I had flown to Washington State again, solidified the proceedings, and became legal guardians. Dina had been evicted from the house where we’d met her over the summer and turned to fentanyl again.
The stenographer continued her concerto.
“The petitioners, Mr. and Mr. Deiss, are obviously of good moral character and have the ability to love, support, educate the child, and have a more than suitable home. The appropriate documentation and background checks have been filed, and there are no impediments to the adoption.” The judge angled his glasses to his forehead and looked out at the gathering. “Unless I have any objection.” He chuckled. “No, that’s for weddings.”
Our band shook their heads in case he was serious.
He read a paper outstretched in his hands. “Without any questions, the best interests of the child would be served by the issuance of the final decree of adoption today. It is therefore ordered, adjudged, and decreed the adoption of the child is granted. The name of the child is legally changed to Michael Stephen Deiss.”
I wiped away a tear, and Dillon bit down on his lower lip.
“The child shall be and is entitled to all rights and privileges and subject to all obligations of a child pursuant to the statutes of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.” He leaned back and crossed his arms on his belly. “You may now give a round of applause for Salem’s newest family.”
The benches erupted behind us, and tears flowed.
Chairs scraped as we all rose.
Jack shook our hands. Our family of three hugged. Dillon and I lingered in our grip a little longer.
“Is this our happy ending?” I whispered into his ear.
“It’s our happy beginning.” He kissed me on the cheek.
Chapter 72
Dillon
Our family huddled by the Christmas tree. A fire cracked behind us, scented the air with traces of birch, and mixed with the tree’s pine. Deet wagged his tail mightily as he ripped open the present Mikey bought him, a stuffed duck.
“He likes it.” Mikey knelt in his pajamas.
Evan looked handsome in his robe. He sipped coffee.
Deet’s rear fishtailed with excitement.
“Hey, little man.” I took the stuffed toy he partially offered me but still held in his mouth. “You want to play?” He growled playfully as I tugged the toy. He looked up at me. His reassuring chestnut eyes beamed with content. “Are you happy, pup?” I yanked the stuffed duck more. “Are you a happy little man?”
Deet dropped it and rushed for the door while keeping an eye on me to assure I followed.
“I’m still in my pajamas, Deet.” I threw the duck and it skid along the hardwood. He yapped and scuffled after it.
“Who’s next?” Evan picked through the remaining presents under the tree. A red one with a gli
ttery gold bow had been shoved in the back.
“I’ll get it.” Mikey crawled over to it. “That’s from me.”
“From you?” Evan sat beside me on the couch.
“To you both.” Tree limbs bobbed and decorations clinked together as Mikey slid out from underneath. Deet, discovering something new, nosed at the kid’s underside as if assisting. “Deet, stop.” He chuckled. “You’re tickling me.”
Evan grinned and leaned against me as we waited for the present.
“It’s nothing special, so don’t get your hopes up too much. I couldn’t afford a new Brooks Brothers suit.” He looked over at Evan. “And I didn’t want to get you another book, since you’ve got so many on your Kindle.”
“You didn’t have to get anything,” I said.
He set the box on Evan’s lap. “Go on. Open it. I made it.”
Evan peeled back the taped sides while I tore through the front. An Abercrombie & Fitch shirt box revealed itself.
“Don’t worry,” Mikey said. “It’s not from the mall. I just used the box.”
Evan removed more of the paper. “You wrapped it so nicely.”
“Madeline helped me.”
“She did?” I pulled the box out from the remaining wrap and set it on the table in front of us.
Evan removed the lid and fished through the tissue inside. He pulled out a frame.
“I couldn’t find a picture,” Mikey said.
Evan held up the frame. Seared on the wood like a beef branding, it read: Us, Family, Love, and Happiness. “You made this?” he asked.
“Uh-huh. I built it in woodworking class. Mr. Harvey taught me how to miter the edges and everything. Madeline helped me find a piece of glass to fit it.”
I bit back emotion.
“You like it?” Evan turned and tilted his head in empathy—no doubt seeing the tears in my eyes. “Aw, hon.” He rubbed my knee. “You’re crying.”
“I’m just happy.” My voice warbled.
Mikey ran over and joined us on the couch. “Let’s take a picture for it now!”
“My hair’s a mess,” Evan said.
“C’mon.” I took my phone and sniffled.
“Daddy’s crying,” Mikey singsonged. “Daddy’s crying.”
“I am not.” I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “I like it, Mikey. I like it a lot.”
“Deet.” Evan patted the cushion next to him and the dog jumped up.
I stretched my arm out for the selfie. “Ready? Huddle.” We clustered together, and I snapped the photo. Deet with his tongue hanging out, Evan with a bit of bedhead and a face beaming almost as much as Mikey beside him, and me with tears cresting.
Mikey’s homemade frame holds the picture now and sits on the mantle.
THE END
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Rick Bettencourt hails from Boston’s North Shore where he learned to speak without pronouncing the letter “r”—and say things like “tonic” when he wanted a Coke, or “bubbler” when getting a drink from the park’s water fountain. Recently, Rick and his husband moved to Florida to escape the New England winters and avoid being engulfed by snow drifts when going about their business. When Rick is not being walked around the block by his dog Bandit, he might be found working on a story about gay men, Salem, powerful women, or some underdog character triumphing over adversity. Rick enjoys theater, art, reading good books, and rollercoasters. He also loves to hear from his readers and would appreciate a review of this book on Amazon.
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Building Us: A Gay Romantic Comedy and Adventure (Marketing Beef Gay Romance Book 2) Page 29
