Raising My Boss's Child

Chapter 3 : Adoption

DASHA'S POV

The adoption hearing was already over, but the final formalities took another day, so I had to stay in this distant city for one more day.

I wanted to spend every moment with my son. If the adoption had taken place in my region, I could have visited him more often during the preparation for the hearing, but in the past three months, I had only managed to get away twice, and now I didn't want to leave, even for a quiet hour.

It felt like I was wasting time.

I wanted Senya to be by my side, snoring softly, while I admired him. No one knew his real name. My son was a foundling.

Seven months ago, at dawn, he had been found in a parking lot. It was late April, and the nights were still cold. No one knew how long he had been there alone. He had been sitting on the curb, with nothing else to sit on, and waiting. He hadn't even cried.

Then he spent two weeks being treated for double pneumonia. The thought of someone being so cruel as to abandon a child alone in the cold darkness made my fists clench helplessly.

I was a peaceful, even timid person, but show me the one who did this, and I would throw myself into a fight without hesitation. My Senya had been so little, so defenseless.

And I was angry that the one who had abandoned the child on that spring night hadn't had the courage to give him up officially.

I could have taken Senya right away, but I had to wait for the time required by the state. Six months were spent first searching for the child's mother, and then waiting for her to come forward. Only then was he given to me.

"You understand," the director of the orphanage said gently. "Healthy and wanted children are rare in orphanages. We have those who are unwanted by anyone. So don't expect to have won the lottery."

"Are you trying to discourage me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, not at all. I love all these children. I have dedicated my life to this work, and I don't regret it for a moment. I just want you to know. We don't know Senya's exact age—he's around two years old.

"He doesn't speak. He can hear just fine, but he doesn't speak. He's withdrawn. Some of his behaviors show signs of autism. We don't have the funds for extensive research, you understand. Only at a minimal level.

"So, Senya is a Pandora's box. No one knows what awaits the one who opens it. Perhaps he will be smart, polite, and a wonderful son. Or perhaps he will be disabled, unable to learn or socialize. All of this is still unknown.

"And the last thing I want is for you to play with him and then, when you realize he doesn't meet your expectations, bring him back, unwanted and inconvenient."

I listened to her and understood her point of view.

This woman was indeed in the right place. I had found my purpose unexpectedly—it turned out that what I did best was be useful to Karim Bulatov.

A funny purpose. But this woman devoted herself and her love to abandoned children.

And then I looked at Senya. He didn't speak at all. Ever. When he heard his name being called, he would freeze, listening intently, but he wouldn't turn around. He only looked at me when he wanted to.

The other children didn't want to play with him—I noticed that during group play, he was always alone, on the sidelines.

But this only worried me on one level. What would Senya's future be like? Would he be able to cope? Would he be bullied? But no matter what, I was ready to be a buffer between him and the outside world. If necessary, I would be a wall. I wouldn't let anyone hurt him. It might sound silly, but I loved him from the moment I saw him. I just knew—he was my son.

He wasn't a toy, he was meant for me, and I was meant for him. And no matter how hard it would be, I would help him grow, surround him with my love and care.

"I'll manage," I said quietly. "I'm not saying it will be easy for me. It probably won't be. But I know how to learn. I know how to overcome difficulties—my life hasn't been easy either."

"I'm glad for Senya," the woman smiled in response.

I still had to obtain a new birth certificate for my son and take care of other bureaucratic details. Compared to the path I had already walked, these were minor tasks. Senya was already mine.

Bulayov called me that night.

It was late evening for them. I was still aware of his schedule, so he was probably having dinner with Damir.

It was early morning for me, but I couldn't fall asleep after the call.

I thought about Senya. Sometimes, I thought about Bulatov. I couldn't say I was in love with him. It was just that he...fascinated me. With his strength. With his power. With his deep, dark eyes like pools. I felt that no woman could possess him. No one could handle his might. I didn't dare dream of him, but again and again, Bulatov invaded my dreams and even my sleep.

The dreams were inappropriate, and after them, I feared my boss even more, blushed even more in his presence.

In the morning, Senya was already dressed and waiting for me. He had a funny hat with a pompom on his head. His little backpack was packed. He sat on a stool in the hallway, waiting.

I thought about how, seven months ago, he had waited in the cold night for the one who had given birth to him, and my heart ached.

I said goodbye to the head of the orphanage and went to Senya. I held out my hand.

"Let's go?"

He looked at me with a scrutinizing tilt of his head, and then he held out his little palm. It was so small that the touching moment took my breath away.

I walked to the gate, quietly crying so as not to scare my son, wiping away my tears and sniffling, while he walked beside me, so little, and the pompom on his hat swayed with each step.

In the taxi, he snuggled against the window and watched the autumn city pass by. I didn't skimp on money and took a taxi to the airport—almost a two-hour drive. There, he didn't let go of my hand, as if afraid to get lost, and I wanted to cry again.

And I felt different. I was probably...special. Now I was a mother, and I had a responsibility.

Everything had changed. I had never envied young mothers, but sometimes, I couldn't take my eyes off them. And now I was one of them.

"We're going to fly on a plane," I said. "Have you ever flown before? You'll like it. And if you're scared, just know that I'm here."

But Senya was completely calm. He stood in line for check-in, sat on a bench in the waiting area for half an hour, drinking juice through a straw, and on the plane, he held my hand, but he didn't look scared. It was as if all of this was familiar to him.

"We're flying home," I said, still not quite believing it myself. "We're flying home, son."