After roughly two years of waiting, with our eligibility for domestic adoption about to expire, Mara and I were finally called in for an interview at the Juvenile Court. From what we understood, the court narrows the field from a sea of willing couples down to four or five who, based on the case files, social service reports, and what each couple could offer, might become the most suitable parents for that particular child. Before the final decision, couples are normally called in simultaneously and heard one by one. But in the waiting room, there were only the two of us, and we had no idea what to make of it. Finally, the honorary judge—a child neuropsychiatrist—invited us in. He spoke in a reassuring, measured tone, and his manner put us at ease, even as our hearts were pounding.
He had us in mind for Maurizio, an eleven-month-old child of mixed race and Ecuadorian origin, born at 875 grams in the sixth month of pregnancy, in precarious physical and psychological condition. He was currently in a family-care home where, despite excellent care, "he was beginning to withdraw." Because of this—and though he was not yet legally adoptable, since his birth mother had recognized him but then disappeared—they had decided to place him provisionally with a family. Maurizio was "not doing well" either physically or psychologically, but he was a "very engaging" child, with an extraordinarily gentle gaze. The judge also cautioned us that his extreme prematurity could have long-term consequences that were not yet predictable. He urged us to think carefully before deciding, especially in light of our stated openness at the time of application—we had said we could welcome children with curable illnesses, not permanent disabilities. But his caution fell on deaf ears. Our minds and hearts were utterly overwhelmed, and the decision, already made in our hearts, was final: Maurizio would be our son.
During Mara's three months of difficult pregnancy, we had imagined our son countless ways, picturing a different child each time. Now the honorary judge was presenting us with a very real boy and giving us plenty of unsettling information about his future—information that should have made us weigh the decision carefully. Instead, the moment he spoke Maurizio's name, Maurizio became our son. No doubt. Yes, we accept. Where do we sign?
I remember perfectly how long those five days felt—the wait between calling Silvia, the house-family director, as we left the judge's office, and our first meeting with Maurizio. How Mara and I fantasized about him, how many questions I asked myself about my real capacity to be a father, and a father to a child with serious difficulties at that, and how impatient I was. That day, Mara and I arrived early and Silvia welcomed us. She took us to a room first and asked us questions in a low, calm voice, weighing the potential parents of Maurizio. In that same measured tone, she described him: "He had many complications, especially in his first month of life when he had three surgeries and was between life and death. He spent eight months in the hospital, the first three on a ventilator. He struggles to take milk and still cannot walk or move enough because he has no head control. He has bronchodysplasia, a typical complication of prematurity, and needs nebulized treatment several times a day. Recently he had bronchopneumonia and was hospitalized for another twenty days. He doesn't speak, but his gaze is extraordinarily gentle. Now, if you'd like, we can go see him in his room."
It was enough to stun us. Our worries and anxieties certainly increased. But the moment we had been waiting for was drawing closer, and fairly resolved, we followed Silvia down the corridor. Maurizio's room was the last one on the right. On the door, a note asked any other children or volunteers with cold symptoms not to enter, so as not to infect Maurizio.
It was not simple or painless
to accept his disability.
At first I saw
only his limits.
Then I began
to see him.
We stepped in, and there he was, lying on his stomach in his crib. Silvia picked him up, supporting his head. He was very small, with large dark eyes that looked a little sad and ears that seemed disproportionately big. His skull struck me especially—it appeared misshapen on one side, Silvia explained, from lying in the same position for so long. He looked at us without much interest, turning instead toward the window, probably drawn by the movement of tree branches in the breeze.
It's hard to explain what I felt meeting him: joy, fear, the urge to embrace him, a sense of inadequacy, finally becoming a father, anxiety about whether I could be father to something so fragile. I had brought him a small gift, stacking blocks for a twelve-month-old. He dropped them right away, completely uninterested. I felt like an idiot.
Silvia invited us to hold him. Mara went first and melted like snow in the sun. Then it was my turn. I lifted him, supporting his neck—he was incredibly light, his gaze still without joy (how different from how it would soon become), but he was in my arms. I had longed for this, and he was my son. Looking back, I see how those moments changed my life, for the better.
It was not simple or painless to accept his disability. There was a period when I saw only his limitations and not him as a person. I wouldn't let him try things himself. I did everything for him in the most basic daily activities. I discouraged him from exploring, from trying the playground equipment, afraid he might get hurt. Then new private speech therapy with the wonderful Sabina—now a dear friend—conversations in our adoption support group, and perhaps my own personal growth, helped us begin to accept Maurizio's difficulties. And that acceptance had real effects: his progress accelerated and, more importantly, his psychological well-being improved.
I began to see him—Maurizio: a wonderful boy (now a young man) with an exceptional gift for human connection, capable of loving and being loved, with a purity and spontaneity unlike anything else, free from the distorting frameworks that burden the rest of us. I learned to listen to him deeply, to see him with new eyes. And in doing so—I, an able-bodied adult—I learned from him the things that matter, the substance of existence, how to grow and mature. Maurizio shows us the added value of difference in a world where everything is supposed to conform to what we're sold, where we're all told to fit the mold. Maurizio confronts you with your own fragility in this competitive universe where each of us sometimes feels like Maurizio.
