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Show Shared Son g By way of apology, Wayne made a simple card for Doug on which he printed in his matter-of-fact fashion, "I like having you for my foster father." Another time he left a note on his thirteen-year-old foster sister's dresser which said, without flourish, "I like you." Both recipients were deeply touched by these notes. Wayne's mother rarely wrote letters, but in one note she asked if he had played any tricks on me. I knew what she meant, for there had been many. For instance, one day he had thrown a huge cardboard box down the basement stairs and then screamed as if it were he falling. I ran frantically to the stairs where he sat laughing. I resisted giving him a good paddling and settled for a talk about which kinds of pranks are harmless and which are cruel. At the end of the school year when the teacher asked each student to draw a picture of his family tree, Wayne drew all the members of his foster family (inserting himself in order of age) rather than his natural family. We had accepted him into our lives so completely by this time that it seemed a natural thing for him to do. The final lesson that year was learned by me. Early one morning, two days before school ended, there was a knock at our door. The attractive Navajo woman introduced herself as Wayne's mother and said she was here to take him home. At that moment I realized how much I considered myself to be Wayne's mother. As I went to his room I fought the strange feelings I was experiencing. After all, he is her son, I reasoned, "and she has every right to reclaim him. But he is so much ours |