Staring out of the aeroplane window, my husband Clint, 39, grabbed my hand and smiled at me with excitement. We were returning home from a holiday of a lifetime, after travelling to Africa, New Zealand and Vanuatu with our baby son, Jonty.
We’d decided to make the most of my maternity leave from my job as a writer, and had spent several months enjoying some beautiful places. We’d loved making memories with Jonty and, as I looked at him asleep on Clint’s lap, I couldn’t help but smile at how peaceful he looked. Then my gaze shifted to the other little boy, just a few months younger than Jonty, asleep on my own lap. He hadn’t been with us at the start of our journey, but now I was determined to give him the best life we possibly could.
Clint and I had been together three years before Jonty arrived in October 2015. I already had a daughter, Caja, nine, from a previous relationship and she adored being a big sister. Shortly after Jonty was born, Clint and I decided to go travelling. We travelled to Africa and New Zealand before renting a cottage on Vanuatu, a beautiful island near Australia, for six months. Clint flew the three-hour journey back home to Sydney for work as a cameraman every few weeks and Caja stayed with her dad, visiting us regularly for long weekends.
With its turquoise waters and friendly locals, the island was a tranquil paradise. Our housekeeper, Joylyn, became a good friend, but one morning, a couple of weeks into our holiday, she turned to me in the kitchen and said something that dumbfounded me.
‘You should meet my cousin, Ruth. She needs a family to adopt her baby.’ I stared at her in complete shock. ‘Ruth just wants a better life for her son,’ Joylyn continued.
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October 19, 2020