THE KID WHO REFUSED TO CRY

We never knew there was a sea of grief hidden inside his soul until….

The first time I encountered the young boy who would become my son, he was curled up on a brown vinyl couch in a psychologist's office. He appeared pale, with dark, stubbly hair and fingers that had been bitten down to the quick, sitting close to a quiet couple in their forties, whom I presumed to be his adoptive parents. It was Wednesday, June 15, 1987, and Adrian was just four years old. Although my husband, Evan, and I were not meant to see him, we caught a glimpse as we hurried past. Having been abandoned as a toddler by his biological mother, Adrian was about to learn that he would be given away once more. We later learned that when the psychologist informed him he would have to leave his current parents for a "new" set, he began to tremble uncontrollably and subsequently soiled his pants.

After thirteen years of marriage and raising three children of our own, Evan and I made the decision to adopt. We enrolled in classes provided by our local Department of Human Services, where Suzy, one of the adoption workers, shared information about the children available through the public agency. We were confronted with harrowing accounts of toddlers confined in cupboards and rendered unconscious by intoxicated parents, accompanied by photographs that left us feeling shocked and nauseated.

Following the initial meetings, I returned home in tears, thinking to myself, I would prefer to remain unaware of such realities. Could I truly handle a child who had endured such trauma? Nevertheless, by the end of the course, we had completed an adoption application, indicating our preference for a boy aged four to nine.

The wait lasted precisely nine months. While our family was on vacation, Suzy called to inform us, "I believe I have found a child for you. His name is Adrian."

She then elaborated on the heartbreaking circumstances. Adrian's mother, struggling with substance abuse, had made several attempts to abandon him. At just 21 months old, still in diapers, he was left at a fast-food restaurant, suffering from a broken arm and two black eyes.

Adrian spent more than a year in foster care before being placed with a family, a situation that typically leads to legal adoption. However, for Adrian, it resulted in yet another rejection.

"He's just like any other four-year-old," Suzy explained. "But his adoptive parents lack experience with children and seem unsure of how to handle a little boy. They want him out of their home by Friday."

She hesitated for a moment. "I realize this is short notice, but there is something truly special about this child. Would you consider taking him in?"

Evan was in an adjacent room. I glanced at him, and he met my gaze before nodding. "We'll take the next flight," he replied to Suzy. I dropped the phone and called for our children to come and hear the exciting news.

We rushed home. The day after we met that frightened little boy in the psychologist's office, Suzy organized a meeting for us to get acquainted. We anticipated that Adrian might be tearful and withdrawn, but he appeared unexpectedly cheerful.

"Are you my new mum and dad?" he asked with a bright smile. "I'm supposed to move into your house tomorrow." He giggled nervously as we shared details about his new siblings, but I noticed he avoided making eye contact. I thought to myself that he was likely worried we might not want him.

On Friday morning, Evan and I set out to pick up Adrian from his adoptive home, a stunning residence adorned with exquisite furnishings and pristine white carpets. We loaded Adrian's few belongings into our car, and then it was time for him to bid farewell to his parents. His smile remained steady as his mother gave him a casual pat. However, when his father enveloped him in a warm bear hug, Adrian's little chin began to tremble… He dashed to our car, exclaiming, "Let’s go!"

During the drive home, Adrian was full of laughter and chatter. Only once, thinking we couldn’t hear him, did he share his feelings. "I wanted to say goodbye to my grandma," he whispered. Evan and I exchanged concerned looks; this little stranger, now our son, had a lot on his mind.

As we pulled into our driveway, Adrian appeared surprised; our simple brick home stood in stark contrast to the one he had just left. The differences became even more pronounced when we entered our home and were greeted by three enthusiastic children and a dog. Our carpets and furniture were, by necessity, of the more durable, stain-resistant kind.

Adrian smiled shyly as we introduced him to Lisa, who is 10, Diego, who is six, and Kevin, who is five. "There are a lot of kids here," he noted. He inquired about where they had lived "before this family" and seemed puzzled to learn that they had always been with us.

In the days that followed, Evan and I focused on bonding with our new son. We learned that his pale complexion was due to rarely being allowed outside. He was constantly anxious about getting his clothes dirty. "My other mommy used to get really mad," he eventually shared. "She took away all my socks because I kept ruining them, and then I could only wear socks on Sundays."

Evan felt a wave of disgust wash over him. He took Adrian for an extended stroll around the neighborhood, which included a trek through a muddy field. By the time they returned home, Adrian was covered in dirt but was laughing joyfully.

We anticipated that the initial weeks would be challenging for Adrian. Surprisingly, he seemed to adapt to our family with ease. He played contentedly with the other kids and referred to us as Mummy and Daddy without hesitation. We were delighted—until our neighbors informed us that he was also calling them Mummy and Daddy. It became clear that those words didn’t hold any special significance for him.

Our first indication of serious issues arose one day in late June. While having breakfast, Adrian spilled cereal on his clothes, and I asked him to change. When he didn’t come back, I went to check on him. He was standing still by his wet bedpost, staring at a puddle of urine spreading across the floor.

“Why did you do that?” I asked softly. He looked up with a vacant expression, then lowered his gaze and remained silent.

Did he think I was punishing him? I could only speculate. This incident was a stark reminder that our child was grappling with deep-seated issues—abuse, abandonment, rejection—that no four-year-old should have to confront.

As June transitioned into July, Adrian often woke up screaming at night, yet during the day, he appeared cheerful—remarkably calm, never displaying anger or distress. His face had taken on a healthy glow, and he seemed to enjoy a playful bond with Steven as they cycled, explored, and played mischievous tricks on their sisters. Then, something occurred that left us profoundly unsettled.

One afternoon, I entered the kitchen to find Adrian standing alone, a look of despair etched on his face, with a sharp knife pressed against his stomach.

"Adrian!" I called out. "Put that down!" I rushed forward, grabbed the knife, and sank into a nearby chair. My hands were shaking as I pulled him onto my lap. "Sweetheart, what were you thinking?"

His response sent chills down my spine: "I was curious about what it feels like to go to heaven."

That evening, Evan and I stayed up late, engaged in deep conversation and prayer. "What made me believe we could change the life of an abused child?" I asked my husband. "Was it wrong to consider adoption?"

"No," Evan replied firmly. "Absolutely not! We can make a difference. We are making a difference."

Evan and I had learned to trust our instincts as parents; we believed that with time and patience, we could help Adrian navigate the heavy emotions he was experiencing. After consulting with the psychologist, I decided to take a straightforward approach.

The following morning, I invited Adrian into my room. "How about we play a game?" I proposed. "Let’s pretend we’re really, really sad."

"That’s a strange game," he remarked, instantly becoming uneasy. After all, he had been examined by psychologists and caseworkers for most of his young life.

We sat cross-legged on the bed, taking turns frowning into a hand mirror. After a few moments, I said, "Now let’s share some things that make us sad. I’ll go first: it makes me sad when people say hurtful things to one another. What about you?"

He nodded thoughtfully. "It makes me sad when—" Suddenly, he halted and jumped off the bed. "I don’t want to play this game," he mumbled.

I knelt down next to him on the carpet. "Sweetheart, I know this is tough, but I need you to give it a try. Can you whisper something in my ear?"

After a brief pause, he leaned in closer, and I could feel his warm breath. "It makes me sad when people say they don’t like me anymore. And... and leave." As he spoke, I noticed his little body starting to tremble.

"It's okay," I reassured him, wrapping my arms around him. "I will always love you." He hugged me tightly in return, but his sorrowful blue eyes remained dry.

As summer went on, Evan and I spent a lot of time with Adrian. We observed that he often smiled even when he was actually feeling angry. So, we made it a point to stop him whenever he was hiding his true emotions. "It's perfectly fine to feel angry if someone hurts you," I would tell him. "Go ahead, show me an angry face." Then I would make a silly scowl, and we would both end up laughing.

One day, Adrian burst into the room from the boys' bedroom, exclaiming, "It's not fair! Steven took all my race cars!"

We calmed him down and encouraged him to go back and ask Steven to share. Evan chuckled, saying he never thought he would be so happy to hear a kid yell.

By the end of August, Adrian had learned to express his anger and seemed more secure in his place within our family. However, he still kept his feelings about the traumatic experiences that brought him to us hidden away. In the ten weeks he had been with us, he had not shed a single tear.

"I think he’s really scared of opening that last locked door," I mentioned to Evan one day while we were enjoying our coffee.

Evan proposed, "Perhaps we should confront the situation directly. We can't allow him to continue like this; it's not good for him."

An unexpected moment presented itself on a sweltering September afternoon. Adrian was happily engaged with some blocks. "One time, my other daddy helped me build a huge tower, and it was so much fun," he reminisced. "We threw things at it until it fell down."

I smiled from across the room. "I bet you shared many wonderful moments with your 'old' daddy, didn't you?"

His silence prompted me to look up. Although he quickly turned his face away, I noticed his chin trembling. Moments later, he sprang to his feet.

"Look at this, Mummy!" he exclaimed, forcing a laugh. He began to skip around the room, waving his arms and smiling — yet his eyes were filled with sorrow.

I halted him. "Let's discuss your 'old' father."

He attempted to wriggle away, but I drew him close and gently held his face in my hands, compelling him to meet my gaze. "Those painful feelings won't disappear until you express them," I said softly. "Can you do that?"

I could feel the intense conflict within him as he glanced around the room, searching for a way out. In his desperate expression, I suddenly recognized the infant whose cries had gone unheard, the little one whose outstretched arms had been met with rejection. I saw the trusting three-year-old who had been promised a "forever" home only to be let down. I witnessed hurt, betrayal, anger — and beneath it all, a profound longing to be loved. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

"Adrian?" He gazed blankly into my eyes. A part of me wished to shield him from the pain he was concealing. Yet, I understood that it was time to dismantle the final wall he had built around himself.

"When you were just a baby," I started hesitantly, "your mother would hit you. There was one time she struck you so hard that it broke your arm. Then she left you all alone. How did that make you feel?"

"Sad," Adrian replied, his voice strained.

I nodded, tears welling up in my eyes. "Then you went to a foster home, and just when you began to feel happy with your new parents, you had to leave them too. How did that make you feel?"

His voice was barely a whisper. "Sad."

"And then the parents who were supposed to adopt you decided they didn’t want you after all." It pained me to say those words, and I swallowed hard before continuing, "Adrian, how did that make you feel?"

I could see the raw pain in his eyes as he stared at me in silence. "It's okay," I said softly, almost desperately. "You don’t have to fear those sad feelings anymore. I’m going to be your Mummy forever."

For a moment, his gaze remained fixed on mine; then, with a heart-wrenching cry, he fell into my arms, sobbing deeply. I held him close, sharing in his grief as his warm tears soaked through my shirt.

He wept for three days, as if a floodgate had opened. Memories flooded back: the church outfit his mother had insisted he leave behind, the fishing trip his "old" dad never took him on, and the fishing pole that represented that unfulfilled promise, which he also had to forsake. Each thought would send him into another wave of sorrow. Through hugs and conversations, his tears flowed continuously. I joined him in his grief, sharing in the physical manifestations of his past hurt. Gradually, we started to move forward.

On July 20, 1999, Adrian officially became a member of our family. Now, he is a lively and playful eight-year-old who dreams of becoming "either a doctor or a postman" when he grows up.

Although Adrian's emotional breakthrough was significant, it didn't erase all his struggles. He still feels profound sadness over losses, particularly when friends or teachers leave. However, I’ve begun to gauge his growth by how he handles farewells.

Evan travels often for work, and initially, each departure left Adrian in distress. To help him cope, I created a simple ritual that reassures him: every goodbye in our lives is followed by a reunion.

Adrian helps carry his dad's bag to the old pickup truck that Evan uses as his "airport bus." We all share a hug and say our goodbyes, expressing our love and urging him to return quickly. Adrian and I stand outside, waving until the truck disappears from view. "Daddy's just going away on business, right?" Adrian asks. "But he'll be back with us soon, won't he, Mummy?"

"Yes," I reply, the phrase "with us" filling me with warmth. "Yes, my son." I wrap my arm around him, pulling him close.