Counterfeit Love

I felt my eyes sting, could feel the tears beginning to form, having to blink them back.

I understood why my Aunt Janie had made that post all those years ago. When she'd been a broken young girl, when she had been saved by a woman that would become my mom, when she had been given shelter and training, when she had turned herself into a certifiable badass, when she had created a life out of her wreckage.

She wanted others to be able to do the same.

Anyone seeking.

I imagined, over the years, many had shown up at the gates. Maybe some for just a bit, while they sorted out their heads, their lives, decided what to do with themselves.

Others, though, stayed.

Like my Aunt Janie.

Like me.

It took my breath away that Aunt Janie had thought to go back and update that long ago post, that she wanted to pass that torch to me like my mom had passed Hailstorm to me.

There was such a legacy here, see?

Hailstorm had done so many amazing things since my mother first created it.

But, in my humble opinion, their open door policy to those who needed it most: that was the most beautiful thing.

And my heart swelled at the idea of being a part of that, continuing that legacy.

Maybe it wasn't adoption in the traditional sense, but it was something similar, something just as fulfilling.

"Chris, angel, what the fuck?" Finch asked a few days later, coming up to watch Joss take on Malcolm's mammoth of a son in a sparring session.

Our not-so-little girl hadn't hesitated at the suggestion, had never considered for a second that she couldn't win.

She believed it so much, I believed her too.

And I was dying to watch my little girl do her thing.

"What?" I asked, taken aback, not used to that tone from Finch, that look of shock and almost outrage on his face. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Did you fucking... kidnap her?" he asked, shock clear in his voice, making me turn, completely confused, my gaze landing on Alice who was clicking away on her new laptop.

"What are you talking about? That's Alice. I told you about her. She showed up here a couple days ago."

"Showed up," he repeated, tone dubious.

"Yes, she showed up. What's the matter with you?"

"You don't see it," he concluded, looking back at me, brows pinched.

"I'm not sure what I am supposed to be seeing," I admitted, hating to, but I was at a total loss.

"Here," he said, grabbing and turning me, making me face Alice. "Picture her with five years shaved off. No, six. Six years. With that hair pulled to the side and braided down her left shoulder. And a purple t-shirt on."

"I don't... oh, my God," I hissed, my entire body jolting at the realization, not sure how I had missed it in the first place.

Because now that he mentioned it, it was glaringly obvious.

This was that girl.

In that profile.

On that page.

On my phone.

That I had shown to Finch six years before.

Alice.

But her name was Alicia.

And she was from South Carolina.

And I had taken one look at her, and wanted to adopt her.

Because something had clicked.

This was that little girl.

Only, she wasn't so little anymore.

And she had found her way to us anyway.

"Fuck, please tell me she wasn't being abused," Finch demanded, voice sad.

"Yes. No, well, not like that."

Hers had been a typical story. Bounced around because she got older and less desirable to adopters. She'd been to some amazing homes, but had been forced to move. Then she'd been to some okay homes. And was glad to move. And then she ended up in one really bad home. Where the biological son of the foster parents had set his sights on her, and didn't want to take no for an answer.

Luckily, she liked to poke around on the dark web, was someone who knew it secrets, was able to come across my Aunt Janie's post before things went too far.

And then she came here.

To us.

Like she was always meant to be here.

And, I guess, she was.

"I guess you are going to take on that legacy," he said, arms wrapping around my waist, leaning in to press a kiss to my neck. "Taking in the strays."

"Yes," I answered, nodding.

"Starting with this one."

"Starting with this one," I agreed.

You see, it wasn't the life I had planned out for myself.

Finch.

Joss.

Alice.

The dozen or so other lost souls who found their way to our gates over the years.

But it was much, much better than I ever could have dreamed.

Love, in all of its forms--maternal, paternal, familial, friendly, romantic--did something exceptional to those lucky enough to find it.

It softened rough edges.

It acted as a balm to wounds.

It healed.

In big and small and world-changing ways.

It gave you the patience and acceptance and confidence to dream.

It gave you hope.

It made you brave.